Every November my thoughts turn to family gatherings, beautiful, crisp fall days, pumpkin pie spice, and my grandmother, Martha Margaretha Claughton, born on November 20, 1891.
My grandmother always went by ‘Grandma’. If you really know me, you know about my grandma. She was such an important part of my life growing up and even though she was a no-nonsense kind of gal, she influenced my very essence of being a woman, mother, and now, grandmother. She was strong-minded, and willful, yet gentle when she needed to be.
Today, one of the greatest blessings of my life is being a grandmother. I never could have imagined the sweetness, the absolute heart-breaking tenderness of holding a grandchild. It feels holy, like a sacred trust ordained from above, and ever since Boo and I embarked on our journey as grandparents, our lives have changed for the very best. Being a grandparent suits Boo like a custom-fit Giorgio Armani in midnight blue. Perfection.
As for me, the transformation has been more subtle. My heart feels bigger, my spirit is gentler, and my patience is sometimes like the Energizer Bunny, which is a surprise to my daughters who definitely didn’t get a patient mom. My grandkids call me Nannie, and I swear it is the sweetest sound on earth to hear one of them call me by that name.
When my girls were younger and I worked full time, I felt a certain hurriedness to our days. Panic at not getting ‘it’ all accomplished, and not quite good enough according to Better Homes and Gardens. I secretly envied all of my friends who were stay-at-home moms. I compared myself to them, like apples to oranges. And when my single mom days were upon us, I even felt more inept at the perfection I saw in others. I was judging my insides by other people’s outsides.
Losing my own mother at a very young age, I longed for a momma like a lone, train whistle carries on the wind, winsome and low. Through it all, Grandma was there. Steady, true, and happily scooping me up in her soft, capable arms. I don’t know where I would be today if I hadn’t had my grandma.
Grandma stepped in with her homemade quilts and flapjacks made in the cast iron skillet. She cooked our lunch every Sunday after Church. She made my clothes and when I was old enough, she taught me to use the old Singer sewing machine. She taught me to play Canasta, plant Zinnia’s in the garden, and make homemade banana bread. She loved me the very best she could. Always.
And today, all these years later, I’m standing in my kitchen mixing up the banana bread to bake and chopping the pecans for Grandma’s pecan pie that I’ll take to my brother’s for Thanksgiving. I always wear her pearls on Thanksgiving day and I know how proud she would be that we think of her and remember her special recipes and her love.
I’m sharing Grandma’s Banana Bread recipe in hopes that you will try it someday, and if you do, think about my grandma. She always baked this bread in coffee cans (Folger’s) only because she never owned a loaf pan, so coffee cans are the original and preferred way. I don’t use pecans in ours because some of our grandkids have nut allergies, but if you can have the pecans, please do!
Happy Thanksgiving, y’all and Happy Birthday, Grandma!!
Grandma’s Banana Nut Bread
1 cup sugar
½ cup shortening (I use vegetable oil)
2 eggs
1 ½ cup mashed bananas
2 cups flour
Pinch salt
1 tsp. baking soda
½ cup chopped pecans
Bake in greased coffee cans (or loaf pan)
350 degrees for 55-60 min.
Sittin' Ugly Sistahs 