Breakfast at Mamaw's
My great-grandmother, Gladys Simpson buttering biscuits at the head of the table.
My great-grandmother, Mamaw Gladys, makes breakfast for my entire Bardstown, Kentucky, family every Sunday. She’s 97, and has been doing this after morning church service for the last 40 years. She still has a valid license, but only drives to three places: the hair salon, the casino boat and Kroger supermarket. Each year she becomes less stubborn and allows my family members to help. My papaw, the eldest of seven, is the honorary gravy stirrer sometimes.
There are over 110 living descendants that trace back to Mamaw. Breakfast still averages about 20 people weekly and about 50 during the holidays. We go to her house in shifts. Pulling into her long driveway, you’re greeted by music of two-dozen wind chimes of various sizes and materials responding to the breeze. Walking through the door, the smell of warm cinnamon apples fills your body. A small hallway leads into the kitchen where the table is being set for ten by Aunt Shirley.
“Hey y’all, we missed you,” she says as she hobbles over to give each of my family-of-four a hug.
Mamaw is standing at the stovetop with one hand on her walker and the other stirring flour into warmed milk. Her smile is bright against her wrinkled face as she welcomes us in. She stops stirring for a few moments to squeeze my hand. My papaw tells her he can take over, but she hushes him away. This is her domain— her famous gravy. As a kid, I would only eat a bowl of gravy with a spoon. It’s a simple recipe of sausage, milk, flour, salt, pepper, a bit of bacon grease and a lot of love. She doesn’t measure anything out, and cooks as if her recipes are ingrained in muscle memory.
The full breakfast spread consists of 18 scrambled eggs, two pounds of bacon, one package of sausage, four cans of Pillsbury Grand! Biscuits, a bowl of spiced apples, sautéed potatoes and onions, three quarts of gravy, sliced tomatoes, bowls of cantaloupe, honeydew, blueberries and watermelon. You have the choice of orange juice, 2% milk or coffee to drink.
When I was a kid, she made all of this herself and insisted on serving us. As she gets older, she appeases my family’s wishes and lets others take over some of the dishes. Aunt Peanut makes the eggs. Aunt Cheryl makes the bacon. Aunt Cindy makes the coffee. This doesn’t stop her from sitting in her chair at the head of the table buttering the biscuits and hollering at aunts that they’re doing it wrong.
“Now Cheryl, you better make sure that bacon don’t burn,” she says shaking her head, knife in hand.
The breakfast spread at the table.
My great-grandfather Marchel remodeled Mamaw’s house in the early 1940s. There are two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a pantry and a long living room. She has porcelain figurines sitting throughout the house on windowsills and around the kitchen. Her decorative couch pillows have Bible verses sewn into them. Above the couch are seven portraits of her children. Only three have died. She’s also lost her husband, Marchel, and her partner, Eddie.
Mamaw’s refrigerator is covered top-to-bottom with pictures of each of her grandchildren, their children and their children. She updates it with each school year portrait and each addition to my ever-growing family.
People spill into the living room as they arrive. Mamaw is never sure exactly how many people will show up, but she always makes enough. When it’s your shift, everyone takes a seat around the wooden table and display of fresh, warm food. We hold hands as my papaw says grace. Mamaw insists that we fill our plates first. If there’s a baby at breakfast, she likes to put their highchair next to her and feed them apples and gravy. She does this before feeding herself. I have memories of her glistening eyes as she wiped gravy from my mouth. Once everyone is filled, she lets my family members do the dishes. She’s funny like that.
There have been a few weeks when Mamaw can’t make breakfast due to illness. She was recently hospitalized for pneumonia, but she continually recovers as if she were 50 years younger. Even when this happens, she still finds a way to provide for her family. She has my papaw go to the local donut shop, buy two-dozen donuts and take them to her house.
I only get breakfast at Mamaw’s about four times a year since I grew up in St. Louis and now live in Iowa, but it’s where I feel the most at home and warm.