Bittersweet

Charlee just graduated, but has no plans for the future. She travels to the coast for the summer to clear her head. Little does she know that the summer has more in store for her then she thinks.

“Sunshine, you are my sunshine, you make me happy…”I could hear my Grandpa singing from behind me, inside the kitchen as he whisked the batter for his famous Sunday pancakes.

 

“…you don’t know dear how much I love you.” The snap of flowers being cut accompanied the voice of my Grandma who had momentarily disappeared behind a big bush of Lavender that looked on the verge of exploding into purple blossoms. 

 

The song drifted on from behind and in front of me as both my Grandparents continued working, starting from the beginning without pause every time it came to an end. They were both Sunshine, bright and happy, whereas I didn't know what I was.

 

Balancing my big toe on the worn deck and pushing ever so slightly back, making the swinging chair rock backwards, the chains my Grandpa had attached to it so many years ago squeaking and clicking. It seemed that everything in this house had a tune or sound, a voice. Except me.

 

The song had been sung around me and to me as long I could remember, sometimes by my mom when she would tuck me in at night �" or my dad, carrying me on his shoulders as we wondered the beach. Me, reaching as high as I could, trying to brush the bellies of the wind dancing seagulls, as my dad sung. I remembered laughing and holding on to my Dads hair as we bobbed along the sand, me joining in to sing the ending, loud and probably off key. My dad would then roll me off his shoulders and toss me into the air, starting all over again with the song, as I soared into the sky. Feeling for a moment, every time that I hovered, before falling back into my dad’s arms like I could fly, light and free like the seagulls above me, before I would scream and come back down to earth. 

 

Now a days I felt light as well, but not in the same way as when I had been four and flying. These days I felt I just felt confused and heavy, I felt stuck.

 

The swing gave a loud groan as my Grandpa’s weight was added to the mix. His floury fingers finding mine to give a gentle squeeze. 

 

“Why don’t you come inside and help me slice some apples for the pancakes?” He asked gently, “I haven’t seen you move in hours, and I believe all the fruit trees are feeling a little threatened by your unmoving stare.” He chuckled.

Turning I gave him a weak smile in return, he was right I had been sitting and staring in to space for quite sometime now trying to detangle me thoughts. Trying to figure out what I wanted. 

 

 The wood felt cold under my bare feet as I gave my Grandma’s garden and fruit trees one last once over. Grandma had moved to the raspberry bushes now, the flowers she had been cutting laying beside the wide stairs that lead up to me and Grandpa. 

 

                                                                          *****

 

I had always loved my Grandparent’s kitchen. It was the biggest room in the house, and always smelled of food. My grandparents both loved to cook, so one or both of them could be found there at all hours of the day. 

 

The counters were made out of wood from trees my Grandpa had cut down on the property to make room for the house and garden. The wood had been smoothed and waxed down so you could still see the individual lines caused from the winter and summer seasons the trees had seen before they had become counter space. 

 

Opening one of the white cabinets beside the large cherry red ceramic sink that I am sure my father along with me and my sisters had been bathed in at least once I pulled out a large cutting board. 

 

“Make sure they’re sliced nice and thin.” Grandpa reminded, fiddling with a match to turn on the stove before pulling two cast iron skillets out of the oven that was probably as old as him.

 

 Mumbling an agreement I continued coring and then slicing, I could smell the smoke from the blown out match and hear the sizzle of the butter in the pans melting. 

 

Out in the garden Grandma was still singing.

 

Placing the bowl with apple slices beside the sizzling pans I moved out of the way, sitting myself cross legged on one of the colourfully floral printed cushions placed on top of the chairs that were set around the wooden table in the far corner of the kitchen. Pulling my dirty blonde hair to one side of my shoulder I began trying to run my fingers through it, it tangled way to easy.

 

 The pans sizzled louder when grandpa laid the apple slices on to the bottom of the pan letting them caramelize for a few seconds before pouring the pancake batter over top. 

 

“The trick,” Grandpa began waving a spatula around and in the process getting some pancake mix on his bright blue Mexico shirt, “is to make sure that the pancake is nice and brown before flipping it, so that the apples stay put.”

 

“And you can tell that by watching for bubbles forming in the batter, right?” I asked cheekily, my voice sounding horse from the lack of use it had gotten this morning.

 

“Right, it’s like I have told you this before,” Grandpa winked, “glad to see someone is listening to me for a change around here.”

 

“I always listen to you old man.” I winked back.

 

The first pancaked was flipped.

“Perfect.” 

 

As a child I had always loved watching my grandparents cook. I would sit on the counter beside them swinging my legs back and forth, stealing tidbits of what was on the menu. I learned quickly that if I was hungry but dinner wasn’t ready yet I could always offer help and in the process sneak a snack in. 

 

I learned the most by listening to instructions from my grandparents and then performing under their ever watchful eyes until I master the technique, then I was expect to do it right every time. I always loved helping out, cracking an egg or two for Grandma’s famous blackberry pies or washing lettuce that had been harvested from the garden, carefully returning any bugs I found to the porch railing so they could find a new home in the garden, causing my Grandma to shake her head and laugh at me saying,

 

“They’ll just be back in the lettuce you wash tomorrow Charlee.”

 

Cooking or baking was a way to escape for me, a way to forget. I could get lost in the feeling of kneading bread dough with my hands, push pull push pull. And then later get excited over the crackle of bread crust cooling on racks by the open window.

 

After every visit me and my family paid to my Grandparents on the coast during the summer months I had new recipes to add to the notebook I had gotten for Christmas one year, a knife and rolling pin crossed on the cover and the slanted writing of my grandma on the inside, “To the Chef, may you always have food in your belly and love in your heart, love Grandma Rose and Grandpa Herbert.” She had also filled the first few pages with some of her favourite recipes.

 

My mom still talked about the time that I come home from the coast and demanded to cook everyone breakfast every morning for weeks on end, I was seven and that was the year Grandpa had taught me how to make toast in a pan and soft boiled eggs. That was all anyone was allowed to eat. My mom still enjoys teasing me with it every time I make breakfast at home. Luckily in the eleven years since I have learned many more breakfast tricks from cook books, the food network and of course my grandparents. 

 

This summer it looked like I was going to become a pancake pro from the way grandpa kept feeding them to me whenever he could and quizzing me on the right way to cook them- in his eyes at least.

 

Grandpa was now adding another pancake to the leaning stack on the plate centered between the two flaming elements crowned with pans that were popping and splatting as new butter was added followed closely by apple. 

 

“Grandma, pancakes!” I yelled through the open window behind me, scanning the garden for her telltale pile of hair held up with whatever was laying around near her when she put it up there. Today it had been one of her old paintbrushes. 

 

“Coming.”

 

“Got everything we need on the table?” Grandpa asked carefully balancing the plate piled high with steaming breakfast. I never understood why he made so much for just us three, and why he didn’t use two plate. But then again when I asked he’s just say “Taste good cold too and less dishes for you.” 

 

“So what’s your plan for today honey?” Grandma asked, taking two pancakes and smothering them with syrup after she had joined us, the screen door banging loudly behind her, “And don’t say nothing or just staying inside, you’ve been doing that since you arrived a week ago.”

 

“But I like it here.” I argued, knowing what I was saying was a lie, the reason I hadn’t left was because I didn’t want to see anyone or have to talk. Spearing a piece of apple I shoved it in my mouth and chewed, trying to avoid eye contact.

 

“I have let you be for the past week,” she paused to swallow, “sitting around isn’t going to make anything better. You need to get out, distract yourself.”

 

“I’m fine.” I didn’t know if I was trying to convince her or myself. But it wasn’t working for neither of us. Grandpa had disappeared behind one of his many newspapers. 

 

“Honey,” grandma put down her fork down, “I’m just trying to help you.”

 

“No one can.” I thought to myself staring at the crack that ran along the edge of my still full plate. I didn’t feel like crying, and I knew that if I looked up I would. 

 

“Why don’t you come to the market with me today, you’ll be with me and it’s only a few hours. You used to love coming to help me, besides everyone’s been asking for you.”

 

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” I said quietly, turning my head to stare out of the window. 

 

“Well I am not taking no for an answer today, sitting around never helped anyone.” Grandma said interrupting my quickly downward spiraling thought process. 

 

Studying me face with a determined expression she added, “I promised your mom I would help.”

 

I glanced over at grandpa seeing if he was going to be any help today. He was still hidden by the paper, the side facing me proclaiming that people planning on having beach fires should make sure no fair bans where in effect. Wonderful.

 

“Meet me in the driveway by the truck when you’re ready to go, I need help lifting the tent and tables into the back.” Grandma said patting my head gently, “You’ll thank me for this one day.” She was moving again, washing her plate and then she was gone with another bang of the screen door. 

It was going to be a long summer. 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

This is a pretty rough draft of a story that has been in my head for a while now. All comments welcome.