Ketchup Soup & Molasses Pie

In college, double-dating evoked images of best friends and their dates heading off to a dinner and movie—but that was not definitely not the case with the first date I went on, with the guy who later became my husband. No, we went on a double-date with his grandparents. His grandma fixed us dinner and then as we were all getting settled in to watch The Sound of Music, she passed out scissors and felt animals to cut out. “We're just sitting, no reason we can't do something productive,” she said.

Let no one ever say that she wasn't always productive. Never did we ever stop by her house but to find her elbow deep in some project. Making posters to track the money the church was raising for their carpet fund, becoming the sales- woman of the year for Pampered Chef, making lunch for her family almost daily—and once even organizing an event at the nursing home for all the elderly women to fold grocery bags, “after all they're just sitting there, no reason they can't be productive,” she laughed.

She wasn't one to waste time. There were things to do, and by george, she was going to get them done.

It was always easy conversion at her house. One basically just had to accept whatever job was put into your hands and work while she chattered away.

One evening we popped in unexpectedly as they were just sitting down to supper. “Oh come in and eat with us,” she said, in typical grandma fashion. “We're just having tomato soup—no reason I can't add ketchup and water to stretch it out.” She held the conversation pretty much single-handedly—which was good, as it meant I didn't have to lie that the soup was delicious. We didn't go hungry, but it wasn't a recipe I wanted to add to my collection.

That wasn't the only unusual thing we ate at her house. I had my first ever molasses pie there. It was one of her favorite pies, but the rest of the family didn't seem real keen to eat it. After a nice dinner one afternoon, she began slicing this molasses pie. My husband made gagging noises and said he'd pass on dessert. She asked if I wanted some, and being that I love molasses, quickly accepted. My husband shook his head saying “that's some nasty stuff right there.” I was a little horrified that he was declining so rudely—then I put a bite in my mouth. It was like eating unsweetened black strap molasses. I blinked hard. My saliva retreated, leaving a gooey, unswallowable lump in my mouth.

“How is it? Do you like it?” his grandma asked, beaming at me.

“It's delicious!” I somehow managed to say, moving my tongue around the mass of goo. My husband knew me better, and could see I was having trouble swallowing. I can't remember exactly what he said, but he basically called me out. But the thought that no one liked her pie, made my resolve harden. “I love it,” I exclaimed. “I've never had anything like it!” At least that part was truthful.

My own grandmother used to tell the story about a church potluck they attended, where a beautiful peach pie got passed around. It's looks were deceptive though. My grandma said it was likely the worst pie she'd ever eaten. But when the lady who made it asked what everyone thought, my grandfather went overboard gushing about how delicious it was. The lady was so delighted, that she made him his own peach pie about once a year—my grandma said he didn't need to eat crow—eating that pie was punishment enough.

Well apparently I didn't learn from my grandfather's mistakes.And I gushed about that molasses pie, even going to far as to ask for the recipe—and every time she made one after that, she'd save me a piece. I learned that eating crow tastes a lot like unsweetened molasses.

Not all the unusual things we ate at her house were bad though. In the last few years she had been watching a Southern cooking channel, and the woman had deep friend dandelions—it's true what they say, anything is good deep fried.

Time changes people: fades their hair, thins their skin, clouds their eyes—but time rarely dims the image

that we have of them. I never saw her grow old. In my minds eye she was still the same woman I met 25 years ago on that first date with my husband, bustling around, making sure no one's hands were idle. Even when her eye sight had failed her, her practical spirit shown through. She would sit at the table and make cookies, or slice apples to be dried, after all she was “just sitting, no reason not to be productive!”

When those hands finally stopped, I understood a little better why God gives us memory. It isn't just so we can have roses in December—it's so their fragrance can waft through even the be bitterest storms.And if I breath really deep, they smell like molasses, with a hint of ketchup soup.