When I was 13 my grandmother and I weren't really close, in fact I was annoyed greatly by her. I used to ask my mother why did she have to be here, can't she stay at her own house. My sisters learned to deal with her after awhile but I guess I was too stubborn to even try, so we had our problems. I remember asking my mother the stupidest questions like if I said I was sick and her mother needed something from the store, would she stay with me or would she take her mother. In my own naive way I was trying to betray my mother into somehow telling me who she loved the most. Looking back at it now I was a stupid, jealous child.

When I was 14, my grandmother, the one who I despised, the one who everytime she came to visit I tried my hardest to make her feel uncomfortable, my dear grandmother taught me one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned in my life. She gave me my first cooking lesson. It wasn't anything big like making Sunday dinner, she taught me how to make fried dumplings.That lesson, that one little insignificant thing means the world to me now.

I remember that Saturday morning as clearly as if it were yesterday. I was up sitting in the living room watching television, of course I was the only one up. In my house getting up before noon on a Saturday is considered reason enough to get admitted into a nut-house. I cherished those little stolen moments of peace and quietness in my house, it was the only time I got to sit down and reflect on what had been going on. On this particular morning I was really looking forward to being alone but I was in for a surprise because as soon as I was settled who should decide to get up than my grandmother.

"mawning mama how come you get up so early"

"nothing child me just couldn't sleep no more"

"oh, so you want to watch t.v. with me"

"sure, but mi haffi find some food first"

"oh, but mama no food no inna di kitchen"

"nuttin atall, not even likkle flour"

"yeah, some flour in de"

"so come we a go cook breakfast fi di rest a dem so dat when yu mada get up she no affi worry bout dat"

"oh my god" I thought "why the hell this ooman choose fi get up now and bother mi peace", but seeing as how it was my grandmother I could do nothing but oblige. My first cooking lesson began.

As I watched her gathering the things from the cupboard I wondered what was I needed for, that's when she started telling me what to do.
"Now Nadine you haffi mek sure say when you pour di water inna di flour mek sure say you no put too much cause then you a go spoil it"
"yes mam"
As she took my hands and showed me how to knead the flour I realized that I was actually having fun. Next she showed me how to put enough oil into the pot without putting too much, I was amazed, she didn't even use a measuring cup. Then it was time to put the flour into the pot. I was scared " mama the oil a go pop up and burn me." She looked at me and her eyes showed amusement but it wasn't cynical it was loving amusement, tender and soft. "if you tek time and put it in slow not a ting not goin happen." I looked at this woman who I couldn't stand and I trusted her and I did as she said. I did it and I was happy. As we sat at the table she explained to me that I had to wait a while and turn them ever so often so they don't get burnt. This was going well. All too soon we were finished and to my amazement they looked like they were edible. My grandmother looked at me and she smiled and again I looked in her eyes. You know it's funny I realized that I had never really looked at my grandmother before, she has beautiful eyes. They show everything, her thoughts, her emotions, at that moment she was proud and I let my eyes tell her that I was proud of myself too. I was proud of myself but more than anything I was grateful. She had through her simplest intentions gave me the most valuable life lesson I ever had.

Sitting in my kitchen today I still feel grateful to my grandmother. Because of her I can get up on a Sunday morning, run to the store and buy some flour and oil. I can sit at my stove for hours just kneading flour and taking the finised products of my time out of the pot. Because of her I can have my mother and sisters out of bed at 9:30 on a Saturday morning begging me for more of my fried dumplings. Because of my grandmother I feel needed in my house.

Now at the age of 17 I still sometimes hate it when my grandmother comes to visit, but I compromised and I learned to deal with her ways. At the age of 17 one of the most fulfilling moments for me is to be in the kitchen with my grandmother talking about nothing and waking up the house with the smell of our fried dumplings. At the age of 17 my grandmother and I are three years closer.