Gingersnaps

“Just let me off here”, she urged. The yellow cab pulled abruptly to the curb. Ginger stepped out into a pile of frigid slush, thoroughly sopping her ankle height boots. It had been a gruelling day and her now, wet ankles and pelleting sleet did little to improve upon it. Grandma had not lingered. For that she was grateful. A life well-lived. She chose to ruminate on that to keep the dull pain at bay. It could wait until after the holidays. Christmas Eve, eve. She and grandma loved the holidays and there was no way that Ginger was going to let her down.

As she pushed her way into the secure entrance, she mentally perused the list of holiday preparations. Presents, check. Turkey, check. Clean the house, check. Decorate, check. Food, wine, eggnog: check, check, check! Gingersnaps… Ginger. Snaps. Tears welled, overwhelmed, and threatened to spill from her tired eyes. Grandma’s gingersnaps. Things had happened so quickly that her head spun, and with the funeral now behind her, the last thing that loomed was to make their traditional, seasonal treat - gingersnaps. Ginger loved the ritual. The warmth of the kitchen. The readying - gathering of the items and ingredients. The measuring. The smell of the spices. The mouth-watering anticipation. The red gingham-clad basket, readied for the tender-crisp, bronzish cookies, had waited patiently on the wood island all week.

“I didn’t see it coming”, Ginger’s thoughts returned to the first week of December, and the phone call that abruptly changed everything. Ginger caught the call just as she entered the lobby of the flats that she shared with her grandmother. Not shared, so much as co-inhabited. Grandma had inherited her family’s rowhouse, complete with a carriage house, and over the years updates included the division of the mansion into 4 units. They had eventually wound up together. Ginger had slowly gravitated back after her divorce, and with no kids in the picture, it was an easy decision. Grandma needed a bit more supervision, just a bit, but just enough, that it made more sense for Ginger to move in, than for her grandmother to move out. Grandma and Ginger had an adjacent apartment arrangement. Their lodgings met in the garden, and the recently installed French doors worked their magic with every opening onto the envy, that was the backyard. The realization of every creative endeavour she had ever made. All of these ideas coalesced, in the culmination of three summers of hard work and planning.

Unseasonably mild, Ginger’s mind returned to the original kitchen of the gentrified dwelling, as she plunked wholly onto the garden’s ornate, marble bench. Her memories were warm and palatable as she reflected on the tantalizing sights and smells of the many and varied goodies that were created there. These goodies always set the stage well, and so deeply good, really good, for the piece de resistance - gingersnaps. Ginger’s snaps… Her red hair shone in the light of the full moon. Full moon, how apt. How fitting. The end of the cycle. The waning and the new moon on its way. Gingersnaps. Simple. Without complication. Few ingredients. Few steps to complete. Ease. Comfort. Today’s events coming to their rightful, celebrated end in the beautiful ritual that was the snaps. The gathering of items. The mingling. The melange. And the sifting with the vintage sieve.

When it came on the scene in ‘71, Ginger was already 10 years old. So, yes by now, vintage. The sieve had sifted more than cookie ingredients over the years. The sifter had been the magic that was part of the “catching up”, the sharing, the shared heart. The sifting was magical. And necessary. “Get this part right”, G-ma reminded, “because this is what makes the good stuff”. Ginger reflected that grandma was right. The mingling and the commingling. The amalgam, beyond the recipe. As if every time we sifted, our pieces fell together.

Ginger hugged her arms to her body and stood to face the rear of their home. The golden light that reached into the garden was soft and soothing. As Ginger reflected on the baking and the sifting she felt as if her pieces were returning to their places. Gingersnaps. She briefly reviewed to make sure she had all she needed by briefly running through the ingredients in her mind: flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, egg, butter, and molasses. Molasses. Slow as molasses in January her grandmother muttered. Ginger’s astrological sign - Capricorn. January. Slow to meet change. Stalwart. Stoic. Stubborn. M-hmm.

Ginger had everything she required. As her mind wandered again from the task at hand, she briefly reflected on her own life. She’d had a good job and had a good pension. She was stable, she was filling the spaces of her retirement, and the pieces continued to fall into place. She marvelled at how calm she felt. "It was not time though", she thought, as her mind went once again to grandmother. She had lived a good, long, fulfilling life. She did not want to be the old lady who was the burden. She had made quite sure to remind Ginger of this over the years. But, "She'll never recover from this trauma," she recalled Dr. Forrester's words in the ER. As she turned to walk the stone path back to the house, she recalled the chilling day she answered her cell to hear, “Ms. Ames?” We have your grandmother here, at County. She’s had a fall and a bad bump to the head. You need to get here as soon as you can.” Regretfully, “as soon as you can”, had not been soon enough. So it was that quick. And here she now was.

A steamy breath followed Ginger in through the French doors. The co-inhabiting had run to the outdoors and allowed for a pleasing space, with a meandering beach stone path that surrounded a large tree. That maple was the delight of the downtown neighbourhood. As she closed the doors behind her, she was immediately pulled into the kitchen by the dry heat of the woodstove. Ginger had preheated the oven and the ingredients were arranged on the countertop. She carefully portioned out her spices, in preparation to be sifted in the antique sieve.

But first, cream the butter, egg, and sugar. At once came the flashback to the first of many, evocative memories - the aromatic kitchen of her 10th birthday. Ginger and G-ma eating “midnight sandwiches”, as the strains of Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte, emanated from the living room. Their love of everything black and white, and thrilling, roared back - their shared passion.

Add the molasses. Flash to the small garden and the watering can - another junk store treasure, that lovingly poured refreshing, rainwater onto the rows of carefully spaced vegetables. When the wet ingredients had been sufficiently beaten and creamed and stirred, Ginger’s mind wandered to the frequent weekend jaunts to the second-hand store, and the search for treasures- costume jewellry and “useful things”- as G-ma called them, amongst the most prized.

Now, the dry ingredients were measured into a large, glass measuring cup with a handle, then followed by sifting in the sieve. That sieve. Ginger paused, bringing that distant treasure-walk into view; that half-a-century ago walk, that first walk that she and Grandma had made together. Slow, with purpose, determined. Ginger and Grandma plodded down the hill and across the park under the blazing rays of a July high noon. The first of many summer walks to find the spoils that awaited. The result of that first foray - the sieve.

The efficiency of the simple tool broadcast the dry mixture in even satisfying puffs, and clouds of memory billowed with each squeeze. Squeeze. Making, “clean out the fridge” sandwiches at midnight. Squeeze. Watering the garden plants on a humid, hazy morning. Squeeze. Sipping sweet, iced, tea in the shelter of the screened porch. Squeeze. Cutting peonies from the enormous plants that lined the fence.

Finally, as Ginger added the sifted mixture into the wet and started stirring, she thoughtfully gathered her memories into focus. Delicately, she rolled the dough into small balls and gently pressed them flat with a fork. Lovingly, she sprinkled them in a final dusting of sugar. As she bent to put the cookie sheet into the oven, Ginger’s eyes pricked with tears. As she stood and closed the oven door, a tear made its way down her cheek to her chin. She set the timer and sat at the island to wait. The kitchen slowly filled with the smell of the snaps and Ginger was once again transported back in time, as her head continued to fill with vivid snapshots of the lifetime spent with her grandmother.

Snap. The garden with the building morning heat.

Snap. The sparse basement, with its cool respite from a smouldering summer day.

Snap. The breezeway and the smell of autumn leaves.

Snap. The covered porch muted the susurration of passing cars, on a rainy day.

Snap. The walk to the thrift store, the day we found the sifter.

Ginger remembered; her hand in Grandma’s. The same hand that now brushed the tears from her face, as finally, she wasn’t all right, no longer calm and together while she sifted through these memories of G-ma. The memories now satisfyingly mingled and mixed. A melange of Ginger and grandmother. Snippets. Snaps of a life well-lived.

Connie Whitely

Dec. 9/20