My Aunt Helen was about a hundred years old when I first met her. Well, probably not quite that old, but she looked it to me. I was around six and had no realistic concept of age yet, but we both enjoyed each other from the first minute we looked eye to eye and recognized a certain twinkle there.
I got the biggest kick out of the way her flabby wrinkles had a rhythm all their own, swaying back and forth as she made her way around the kitchen. That’s where she always was, too. Didn’t really look like she was comfortable anywhere else. On the couch in the living room while the family watched something on this brand new thing called “television,” she sat frozen and still, bored out of her mind. But the second she entered the kitchen she changed into a new person. Full of energy, happy, very fluid and efficient in her detailed movements.
She could make stirring up pancakes a totally joyful experience. The fun all began in her favorite mixing bowl — a heavy blue and white crock trimmed with tiny yellow flowers — which tucked perfectly between her left hip and forearm. She’d grab a big wooden spoon from the tall jar by the stove and start the process of beating that dense blob of pancake batter to within an inch of its life.
First it was a slow, smooth, circular pattern as though she were conducting a somber funeral dirge. As the batter quickened, she picked up the pace and did a little waltz around the kitchen, stroking and stroking and stroking. The downbeat brought the spoon firmly to the bowl’s wide bottom while beats two and three twirled it lightly back up to the top. Pausing occasionally to pick up a little brown pitcher and add more liquid to the mix, Aunt Helen would begin her dance again with new vigor. Changing to a sassy cha cha or a good old Texas two step around the kitchen table, she beat fluffy life into her beloved batter.
By this time I would be hopping around the floor imitating her and we’d be laughing so hard we cried. But the best part — the part that stole the whole show — was the sheer momentum her wrinkles gained as she stirred that bowl with more and more gusto. The folds of loose fat on her arms flapped and jiggled and bumped into each other with such fierce energy I swear I could feel a breeze in the air. And the sound of those fleshy castanets echoed off the walls and brought the music in our heads to rhythmic life.
Nobody could cook up a storm like my Aunt Helen!
