Dinner at Grandma’s

It describes my family in every way: hectic, disorganized, yet in every way perfect. As soon as you hear that screen door open you feel like you’ve walked into a carnival. The first thing that hits you is the smell. It doesn’t matter if it’s the freezing temperature of winter or the unbearable heat of summer, my grandmother’s house always smells like delicious, homemade food. The scent of nice warm chicken, made with all the love in the world, and her famous rice, which makes us all go crazy are always there. Everyone in her town knows about my grandmother’s house. It’s probably the biggest treasure chest you’ll ever go into. For pack rats its paradise, and for me its home. Her house is close to 100 years old, and you can definitely feel it.

In the middle of the room is a Central American table, made out of leather, surrounded by six chairs. The bottom parts of the chairs are U shaped from the weight that they have supported over the years. My family gathers around this table every morning of summer or Christmas vacation, and we tell stories while my “Abuela” cooks at the stove anything that we’re hungry for: chicken noodle soup with crackers on cold days or an endless supply of pancakes any time of the day or night. Behind the table are shelves that tell the story of my life and of the other people she loves. The shelves are bent because all the books and pictures that have been placed there. Pictures of me at two are there, and right next to them are my father’s pictures as a two year old which show our resemblance. There are invitations to weddings of fifteen years ago, and thank you cards for simply just being there in a time of need.  The shelves hold all these memories and warmly embrace new pictures or ornaments. During my breakfast I take the seat facing the shelves and I look at them for hours trying to find something new since my last visit; and there always is. 

In the background I hear my grandmother dancing to her Panamanian cumbia and she yells “Ay vamos , Panama,” which always makes me smile. My dad sits on an old rusty chair telling the funny stories that make me and my brothers laugh for hours. Then it becomes a competition between my Abuela and my dad to see who tells the funniest one. I simply think it makes their day to hear me and my brothers giggle. My grandfather is the biggest character of all. To me, he’s like the stereotypical redneck. His sits at the table with his white wife-beater shirt and his cutoff jeans that he probably got in a yard sale for $1.00, and starts saying to my brother, “You uuuglyyyy.”   He’s been saying that to my brother since he was three. It was funny back then, but not so funny anymore. Still we continue to laugh at it now because we think it makes him feel better. Also, since he had a stroke a few years ago I don’t really think he can come up with new jokes. The dogs and the parrots are always making noise, adding to the chaos. Tippy the dog is always jumping to try to eat my crackers, and, of course, Abuelo Mel is always feeding him my food. 

When you look up at the ceiling you can barely see it. It’s completely covered in baskets from every Latin American culture and the many yard sales my grandmother goes to every weekend.  My favorite ones are the Panamanian ones because I know they are special to my grandmother.   Living in the United States, I know her life is different and that every day she misses her grandchildren in Panama. Also, she misses the way of life and the warm people who surrounded her when she lived in Panama. She tells me stories about how she used to be the most beautiful woman and how all the boys would stand outside her window and throw pebbles at it. She would wake up in the middle of the night and they’d recite poems or give her serenades.   

 Everywhere around the kitchen is her collection of black and white cows. She has cow salt and pepper shakers, cow mittens, cow everything. It gives me all the joy in the world when we go and visit and she’s always excited to show me any new addition to her collection. It amuses me how my grandmother keeps holding on to her inner child. Something as simple as a cow tablecloth fills her with happiness.  I don’t know why we all gravitate towards the kitchen or why we sit there for hours after we’re done eating, but the feeling of love that is there seems to keep us glued to those chairs, long after the dishes have been cleared from the table.