Baking with Grandma

I am not a great baker - the measuring, the mixing, the precision.  It is not what I do best in the kitchen but every once in awhile I feel the need to crack out my Kitchen Aid and spin up something sweet.  And every single time it never turns out quite like it is suppose to - too much peanut butter, not enough eggs.  What do you mean baking soda and baking powder are not the same?  And as much as I enjoy something freshly baked from my kitchen, it isn't the main reason I feel the need to fire up the mixer and let the dough fly.

You see it has to do with my Kitchen Aid.  The same Kitchen Aid that rides shotgun whenever I move to a new home.  The one with the random stains and small dents in the bowl.  The Kitchen Aid that I will never replace no matter how much nicer and prettier the new versions are, because you see this specific mixer does more than whip up frosting and cookies, it reminds me of someone I loved to cook with - my grandma Goedderz.

My grandma passed away unexpectantly when I was 21.  I was a senior at Waldorf and an intern for the American Cancer Society when I received the call that grandma was being air lifted to the hospital after an aneurysm had formed in her brain.  It was while I was delivering those sunny daffodils that my grandma left us.  I felt like a piece of my whole being had left me that day, sadness and tears came days later as it all set in, after I lost my biggest cheerleader.  

Less than a year later, Grandpa Goedderz joined my grandma, and my dad and his siblings were left to sort through years of memories, jars of screws and nuts, and many kitchen appliances among so much more.  I was blessed to be able to received some of my grandmother's rosaries, her Blessed Mary pin and her Kitchen Aid.  I was living in Alaska by then, so my mother took dear care of the Kitchen Aid and when I moved to Iowa, almost a year later, it was one of the first items that found its way into my cupboard.  

It is days much like today that I like to bake with my grandma.  Days when I miss her the most or reminded of her passing.  Days when people in my life have to go through the same pain that I went through over seven years ago.  The pain of saying goodbye.  Days when you gain the knowledge that life isn't fair and it never makes sense as to when, where, and why.  Days when your memories become so much more important.  Memories of birthday mornings filled with the sweet singing of "Happy birthday to you," the taste of honey and peanut butter sandwiches, and the smell of dill and vinegar.  Memories of a mixer spinning together flour, sugar, eggs, and milk perfectly together to start what would soon be a sweet pan of potica. 

Now I never know what I truly believe as to what happens after we say our final goodbye, but I do believe that my grandma still bakes with me.  And not only does she bake but she also joins me on my journeys by land and by plane.  She has saved me from a car accident or two and reminded me to slow down and enjoy the ride.  She has never left my side or fades very far from my mind especially now being back in the Brainerd area, the same place I would travel several times a year to visit her home just outside of Crosby.  The little green house surrounded by lilacs and chokecherry trees.  The original home of my Kitchen Aid.