memories

When I think of Gran, I remember her sliding the roaster forward on the oven rack, lifting its cover to steam the kitchen, and poking the potatoes baking around a pork roast, frowning at them if they did not crumble into submission. The kitchen smelled like cooked celery, starched curtains of polished percale, and salt and pepper. The pantry, just steps away, was cold and dry: china, golden raisins, sugar and spices and string.