Thanks!
Grandma's Kitchen:
1690 Badgley Road, home away from home. Though it is not the house they have always occupied, the warmth and comfort makes it feel as though they have lived there for a lifetime. Each kitchen my Grandma has occupied has felt this way though.
As we arrive to the snow covered white house with green shutters, the only house on Badgley not made entirely of stone, it does not look out of place in any way. The one-story, white sided house with green shutters and matching roof is my home away from home. The display of twinkling white lights and a nativity have replaced the tall sunflowers mixed with red white and blue perennials encompassed by the ever so tasteful electric fence to keep the deer away. (Oh, how we’ve begged and pleaded for them to take it down!) Grandpa’s bright orange lawn mower now lives inside the garage, rather than just outside of it. I park in the ice covered driveway, my cousins’ matching BMW’s rest easily atop the snow in the side yard. Aunt Terry, Uncle Doug, and company have yet to arrive from their long drive from Freemont Michigan; this is no surprise.
Hannah and I enter, eager to help. We make the routine run up and down the steep basement stairway to help Grandpa find the best knife to carve his prized turkey. Grandma needs an extra ladle to use for the gravy, up and down between the two kitchens we go. Before we would eat downstairs in the beautifully finished basement. Grandpa has a hard time moving between the two floors now though, so the smaller upstairs dining area and a special card table set up in the living room for the “kids” suffices.
Soon Aunt Deb and Uncle Jack arrive and the fun begins. Aunt Deb is my Mom’s older sister. She cringes when she is mistaken for her around their old stomping grounds, Aunt Deb is ten years her senior. I grew up visiting my cousins, Lauren, the closest with me in age, Ross, who has always felt like the big brother I never had, and Lindsey, the trouble maker. Our families, living only 15 minutes away from each other, have always been very close. Sometimes it feels as if the Clinks, my Mom’s brother and his family live states away. Three hours is more distant than you may think.
Aunt Deb, Uncle Jack, and my Mom and Dad are always the life of the party. Each of them has an absolutely contagious laugh. It is difficult to be in a room with all four of them and not to be next to rolling on the ground in tears.
As Uncle Jack and I are figuring out new nonchalant ways to flip one another off, Grandpa says the prayer. It is finally time, one of the two meals I look forward to all year long is about to commence. Lauren, a year younger than me, and Hannah, still the baby at 14, hurry toward the heaps of steaming goodness. We figure that if we are still considered young enough to sit at the kids table, we won’t feel to bad about being first in line for the goods.
I go first for Grandma’s noodles. Everyone scrambles to get the biggest heap on their plate. Only Alex, who still enjoyed baby food long after his transition into solids should have begun, skips out on the famous dish. We of course never cease to chide him for his “poor decision making” when it comes to the best parts of Grandma and Grandpa’s cooking. Opting only for a roll, he is not the one to push in front of, to say the least.
Back again to the noodles, I can taste them as I write this. Only a few times a year do we get to indulge in such a delicacy. Though I’ve stood in her cluttered kitchen for years as she’s made the noodles from scratch, the doughy pieces sitting atop the island as she prepares the next item on her list, I haven’t ever dared to attempt the recipe. She complains each year that they, “weren’t her best,” though each time I take a bite I couldn’t imagine anything better. The noodles are Grandma’s staple. When I think of the thick warm pieces covered in heavy gravy mixed with bits of turkey, or chicken, or sometimes beef, I feel the love and devotion that go into each piece. The grueling process is not for her, but for us. Her small family that she manages to bring together year after year during the holidays.
Sixteen & Reckless:
When I was sixteen, I was a badass. As I’ve grown older (and wiser?) I know that I made some potentially life-threatening decisions. When I say life-threatening, I mean it in more ways than one. My life would have been threatened if ever my parents had found out about my secret trip to he Windy City.
On a friday in early November, I found myself absolutely disgusted with everything possible. I was sick of my friends, sick of home, sick of school. Around lunchtime that fateful day, I decided, “what the hell, I’m gonna take a road trip!”
At the time, my boyfriend of two years was living and working in Chicago. A three plus hour drive from Jackson would mean crossing two state lines and driving in heavy Chicago traffic. Hey, if I’d driven through rush hour in downtown Jackson, what was downtown Chicago around 5 p.m.?
Stupidly, stupidly, stupidly I set out just after school. I fibbed and said I would be shopping in Ann Arbor with a girlfriend and then returning home to stay the night with her. I remember waiting and waiting for my parents to call and ask why they had seen Drew driving around town when we were supposedly together. Thankfully, karma was working with me that day.
I set out with just enough Camel No. 9’s -yuck- to get me through the long and lonely drive to the Windy City. Three CD’s and half a pack later, I was learning quickly that the speed limit was a myth in rush hour Chicago. Apparently, 80 was the new 55, who knew!? A fearless and experienced driver’s license holder for four months, I totally had it under control.
Eight near death experiences later (or something like that), I was cruising into the suburbs wondering why Trevor had told me he lived in Chicago. In my mind, being able to see the Sears Tower from your balcony didn’t count, but hey, I’ve been wrong before. Finally arriving, relief washed over my high school sweetheart ran out to parallel park my car.
Trev’s roommate dropped us off downtown later on that evening. He still tells me years later that my face has never lit up the way it did when we walked into the Coach store on Michigan Avenue. This though, was not at all the most memorable part of my journey.
Across the street from Coach sits the Grand Luxe Cafe. Trevor and I waited more than an hour to be seated in the glass room that overlooks the beautiful shops that adorn Michigan Ave. We sat in a cozy booth right against the floor to ceiling glass. The room was dark and the decoration elegant. In my sixteen year old mind, this was as romantic as it could get.
I ordered a coffee and we sat across from one another holding hands atop the table. This is still a tradition he likes to uphold, much to my anti-public display of affection stance.
- Needs some development -
I would like to say that I’m not quite as cheesy now as I was then, but last November we ate at the Grand Luxe again on our four-year-anniversary, and the magic was just as present as it was the first time. It felt like our place. We somehow pulled off sitting at the same exact table, ordered the same meal, held hands and enjoyed each others company again as if we had not seen each other for months like it had been our first time.
Each time I am in Chicago I walk past this restaurant amidst my shopping and smile. I could not imagine sitting in that place with anyone else, and I cannot imagine a better meal in Chicago that the Grand Luxe chicken parmesan.
The second one is almost embarrassing toward the end, I was running out of steam and it got a bit mushy, so my apologies. I like the beginning, I'd like to think it was entertaining. Again, let me know where it could take me. Obviously, the vivid description of the meal would be yet to come from my Grand Luxe meal.
