Kitchen memories

I hold the knife wrong. I always do. My grip is probably a little too tight, my index finger steady on the thick part of the blade. I grew up in the kitchen watching my grandmother cut like this. I didn't know it then, but she had arthritis in her fingers. They locked uncomfortably around the knife but it never slowed her hand. She would dice and slice quickly, never slowing between vegetables.
She never held her knife correctly. Often rather than slicing on a board, she'd cut mid air directly over the bowl. She would cut towards her body but she never cut herself. Her movements were steady, rythmic. She'd cut to the beat of Neapolitan songs playing in the background. She'd sing along loudly, croon really, to her favorite parts.
I never thought we were alike.
But now in the kitchen I realize we are. I hold the knife like her. I sing to whatever music I'm listening too.
She instilled in me a love of cooking and food. She never taught me how to cook. We tried that, but it never worked. Grams was not a teacher. She could not sit there and explain what she did, not in the kitchen or anywhere else.  She could not give me specific measurments or quantities. She could not tell me how to do things. She could tell me I was wrong and she used this skill liberally.
What my grandmother was great at though, was doing. She was a wonderful cook. She had the patience to chop and mix and simmer for hours. She would sing and talk the whole time. And I would watch. I would take it all in and observe... And I would occasionally butt in and try to get her to teach me.  "Show me how". It would inevitably lead to a shouting match between the two of us but every now and then I could glean information.
Watching and listening I learned about her and I learned about cooking. I learned about Italy and the style of cuisine. I developed a sense of wonder for the culture, especially the food culture. Everything Grams did in the kitchen took time, took patience. There was no fast food, no instant gratification. And I was okay with that. The tastes were richer, the flavors deeper than anything we got from fast food. Don't get me wrong; Paul and I loved our Burger King, our McDonald's but it wasn't the same as what came out of our kitchen.
It's still the same today even though Grams is no longer here.
What comes out of our kitchen, my kitchen takes time and patience. It's not 5 minute food but it's worth it. I don't mind taking the time and effort. It's rich and enticing and fun. It's fun to play with my memories. Since Grams wouldn't write down her recipes or tell me even, I rely on memory. I rely on taste and my sense of flavor. I rely on creativity and make her dishes my own. I take in what I remember from then and what I see all around me, on tv, in Italy, in Jersey, in NYC and I come up with new things.
I play and I remember.
I hold my knife wrong but slice my vegetables correctly on a wooden board. I sing along to music but I write down my recipes as I go. I am a combination of new and old and every time I go into the kitchen I see images of Grams and her cooking. I smell onions sweating and hear the oil sizzling hotly.
And then I start my own creations, my own concoctions.