My Grandmother’s Enchiladas

I mentioned in my last post that some of these prompts are making me THINK pretty deeply (which isn’t a bad thing), and I’ve found it difficult sometimes to push myself to put the words and thoughts into a blog post. So, today I chose a prompt that while meaningful, it’s not going to be too hard to write. The prompt is: “Write about a family recipe and the memories it holds”. As soon as I read it, I immediately thought about my grandmother’s enchiladas.

I loved my grandmother’s enchiladas. They were just the right blend of spicy, greasy, yummy goodness. And my grandmother made them pretty often. We lived about three hours away from her, and visited on most holidays and during summer vacations. We always had enchiladas at least once whenever we were with her, even Thanksgiving and Christmas. And while this post is kind of about those enchiladas, it’s really more about my grandmother and who she was.

My grandma, Lenna V White, was the kindest, most gracious women I’ve ever known. She was an extrovert who loved people, and especially loved her family. She was the epitome of someone who “never met a stranger”, and she loved to cook and host people in her home. She was never without a cup of coffee, and the first words she would say to you when you walked through the door were, “Are you hungry?” It didn’t matter if you arrived at 11 pm, she would have a roast or enchiladas warming in the oven, with a large bowl full of potato salad waiting in the fridge. (She liked to make cole slaw too, but I was partial to the potato salad).

Her physical home was simple and not very big, and some might say it was broken down and in need of a few repairs. But that didn’t stop her for one minute. She always invited visitors home for lunch after church on Sundays, with a little caveat about the fact that my grandpa was a smoker. She didn’t let the yellowed walls, the hole in the floor, or the dust on the shelves be a deterrant to sharing her home and her food. And not one Saturday went by where she didn’t sit for an hour or two and call people to see if they would BE at church on Sunday. She offered to drive those that couldn’t, and she was always so thrilled when someone she’d call would show up. She loved God first, and did I mention… she loved all his people too.

I have been thinking about her a lot lately, as I slowly write her life story (referenced in this post). Her life was filled with difficulty and trauma. Generational and family trauma, and just real-life, lived through the depression by the skin of their teeth, difficult times. She loved my grandpa fiercely, although he came with his own set of difficulties and family trauma too. They were both “adult children of alcoholics” but lived in a time where you didn’t recognize or get help for such things. My grandmother’s way of dealing with hard things, mean people, or trauma was to gloss over it and look for the positive. I never heard her say a mean or bad thing about another person. If she did have to acknowledge something bad, she always had an explanation for it, that put the person or situation in a positive light. Today, we would call that a serious case of denial. But, she was surviving and loving people, in the best ways she knew how.

And one of the best ways she knew how was to sit with a cup of coffee, feed you, and encourage you in her sweet, gracious way. And her enchiladas were the best in the world. Especially when you got to eat them with her best-in-the-world potato salad. (I promise, it was a winning combination!)

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