My Gramma's coffee cup.
This cup never gets used. It is too small and has the worst handle ever.
I don't think anyone else wanted it.
This is why I surmise that she pocketed it when she was in the Bridge Cafe on one of her monthly outings with the other women from the farming area where we lived.
In the summers after swimming in the river we would run to gramma's house where fresh baked, and still too warm, brown bread was waiting on the table with a big jar of honey for us to wolf down. Rice pudding, creamy, sweet and made everyday would be sitting on the back of the wood stove just in case the loaf of bread hadn't filled us up.
Winters had us sitting by the wood stove, warming our feet after tobogganing down the river bank, eating apple pie.
All of us thinking that this was the best food we had ever eaten and giving not one thought to the slime and fish scales on our icy cold hands.
Memories of her are triggered each time I see or smell a food she made for us, or taught us how to make.
Christmas Eve - vinetarta (we are a family of Icelandic immigrants)
Birthdays - fried steak and new potatoes from the garden with sweet corn on the cob.
First snow storm of the season - bacon and eggs cooked on her wood stove.
Hot Summer days - potato salad and cold sliced ham with the just-canned vinegary smell of dill pickles and sweet relish glistening in shiny jars ready for winter meals.
There were always kids playing hide and seek in the corn rows, aunts and older cousins in the kitchen gossiping and making food, uncles and older boys off in the corner planning next years crops and talking about the newest farm equipment.
And dogs and cats everywhere.
The smell in the air? One of delicious food and nearby cattle.
Last Sunday morning in my quiet house Son #2 asked if we could make bannock.
Ahh Gramma, there you are again.