The Sweet Truth

When I stood in front of the rusted entrance to the grand mansion, nostalgia flickered over my mind. This was the same house where I spent my childhood, my vacations with my family, my cousins and my friends. The invaluable house had been a dwelling of all kinds of emotions. It had witnessed every up and down the family had been through. The white edifice was stained and yellow now, wild weeds and bushes had taken place of the beautiful hedge fences. It looked old and broken. It was my grandparent's property, who spelt life into this mansion which now was lifeless and dead.

I entered the mansion which was unoccupied for 6 years my grandma died. Thick layers of dust had already accumulated on the surface of the covers of the furniture.

I loved everything about my grandmother. She was truly blessed with talent, in the garden and in the kitchen. One big regret is that I never thought to learn to cook like her. I didn’t use to enjoy cooking, but now that she’s gone, it’s just lost like that part of my past. She’d make big Sunday dinners. I’m pretty sure she was the sticky stuff, the sweet honey that stuck the family together. She had a big family but her kids didn’t always get along and still don’t, and every Sunday they would cram in after church and somehow coexist in the best way. I remember carrom playing in the living room, on the television chatter about current news and voices around a wooden table, food with the pot hissing on the stove in the kitchen. She canned her own garden goods, so there was corn, green beans, and mashed potatoes. She also had vines of cherry tomatoes my sister used to pluck off the vines when she visited. When I was much younger, we would spend the summers at this house, in south Louisiana. Louisiana produces the best peaches I’ve ever eaten, and my grandmother used to get peaches the size of two fists full of sweet juice and delicately soft, with just a little bit of fuzz. You’d have to eat them leaning forward so that you wouldn’t end up soaking the front of your shirt. My grandmother used to buy them from the local market at a relatively cheap price, a big box full of huge peaches that were perfectly ripe and sweet. She would then peel them over a big pot so that it would catch that juice, and chop them roughly before putting the pot on the stove, a two-gallon pot full of mashed peaches and their juices. She added cinnamon, nutmeg, a pinch of cloves, a pinch of allspice, and maybe a little molasses, brown sugar or some other burnt sugar sweetener.

On low heat, she let the whole thing come up to a simmer, waiting for the peaches to break down into the most amazing mash. Before she could make sweet cookie dough to top the cobbler, I usually stole a cup or two of the mash and ate it hot enough to blister the tip of my tongue. Sometimes my cousins took it and ate it over vanilla ice cream, but trust me, it didn’t need any help being sweet. She’d chase us out of the kitchen, but by then the damage was done and it was a damn good thing she made so much. We orbited her and the pot like drunk fruit flies until she could get the cobbler into the oven. When she pulled it out, the cobbler was a crispy mass which quickly became cookies with caramel on the bottom, where the cookies hit the sweet, tangy, spicy peach mash. I could and did eat peach cobbler until I was sick.

Gone were those days, they are like figments of imagination for us now. Well, I freshened up and helped myself with a bowlful of tangy tomato soup before the other members of the family arrived. It was getting dark when slowly and gradually everyone started arriving. Uncle Tom arrived first, then Peter and his family, Aunt Megan and her husband, my parents and sisters, Patric with his second wife and the rest. Sarah was the old caretaker she had prepared a huge dinner like grandma, but it did not taste like hers.

The next morning the buyer would come to make a deal on the property. As decided Mr Richardson arrived early the next morning. A big white car parked exactly in front of the rusted entrance.

Dad walked past the garden which was home to fresh vegetables and fresh fruits once and now was laden with wild weeds, bushes, climbers and dry leaves. The mango tree and the lemon tree stood there though and various kinds of birds had nestled upon them. They were not taken care of and hence were not flourishing.

Dad received him with warmth. Mr Richardson was a small chubby man, quite jovial. He wanted this plot to turn into a farmhouse. Sarah had placed a tray of tea and cookies on the tea table where my grandma's children would sit with the buyer to discuss. I had not much to do and so decided to take a tour of the surrounding areas. I took Bill with me. He was the youngest of all. While strolling across the road into the vineyard of Uncle Ardley, I heard a cart being pulled. My sight moved and reached out to a cart full of peaches exactly ripened and seemed sweet. Was this a coincidence or a sheer matter of luck that I managed to pass by the same peaches which my grandma used to prepare her signature cobbler cookies?

I could not control it and bought 2 baskets full of peaches. I had decided before the final word I would try one last time to bring everyone to the same decision, not to sell the house. A drop of tear rolled down my eyes, like my grandma, I had always enjoyed the company of my family, relatives and friends.

Sarah smiled at me when she found the 2 baskets full of peaches being dropped into the kitchen basin to be washed. She helped me with peeling and roughly chopping them. I remembered this signature recipe of my grandma, which she taught me with care.

Before putting the pot full of mashed peaches and their juices on the stove, I did not forget to add cinnamon, nutmeg, a pinch of cloves, a pinch of allspice but what should I use for sweetener? There was no brown sugar or burnt sugar. Winter was the time when fresh palmyara juice was extracted and from these, they used to make an amazing sweetener a little sweet and a little tangy. I wished I could get some of them. As if she read my thoughts. Sarah looked amongst the cans and took out a small can and handed it over to me, "I had saved some here, you can use it".I opened the can to find the molasses which my grandma used as a sweetener. On low heat, I let the pot come up to a simmer, waiting for the peaches to break down into the most amazing and heavenly mash.

When it was almost done, I dipped a paddle and took a bowlful of the mash. When I hurriedly tasted the mash and blistered my tongue only then did I realise, it was the same taste, whether you crave the sweet and salty flavours of chocolate chip, the bitterness of sugar cookies, or the warm spices in snickerdoodles, every cookie should be celebrated, we don't need a food holiday to reach for the cookie jar. I decided to treat my family with this usual but heavenly peach cobbler cookies.

It was evening and everyone had settled in the garden for tea and to discuss the sale progress. Molly was shaping her nails with flint and Bill was throwing the ball over again and again towards her, this made Molly angry and she complained. Dad and Uncle Tom were in grave discussion. The kids were trying to play something.No one noticed it when Sarah had brought and settled the tea tray and the Peach cobbler cookies on the table. Mom was busy knitting a yarn, she developed this hobby from my grandma, who loved my mom the most. The sweet smell of the peaches drew the children first. They were amazed when they saw fresh and sweet cookies. Bill filled both his fists with the cookies and started to devour them." Wow this is ...so...so yum......yummy!" he said in a gargled voice mouthful of cookies. Megan and Peter usually never liked cookies but the fresh smell and the authentic peach flavour drove them towards the cookies filled trays."This was what grandma made when we were young, isn't it Jenn?"Peter asked."You remembered how we stole the mash?" he laughed, "And when caught grandma used to drive us away"I stole his words.

Megan poped in, "Oh, how beautiful the days were, I loved it with vanilla ice cream."Do you remember how Jenn used to burn her tongue with her hot mash?" laughed Dave."But who made them" inquired everyone, there was a quizzical look on every face. Mom who had left her yarns aside was biting her share of cookies with a smile she replied, "This can be no one except for my Jenny."I smiled back

The air was filled with laughter and smile, we had already started cherishing our memories. The sun was setting, the sky had turned reddish, and birds seemed to fly back to their nests. Uncle Tom, dad and everyone were lost in their childhood memories. From the treasure of their memories, they came up with many incidents about the peach cobbler cookies which their mom prepared. Everything seemed lively again, this house, the pathways, the streets, the childhood days. There was nostalgia and silence for some time. Then suddenly Bill spoke, "Dad can we stay here forever, I like this place..."Uncle Tom looked at him, there was a drop of tear in his eyes. Everyone looked at each other. Was that so important to sell this house which was filled with the treasures of precious memories, laughter, and love? There was a question in everyone's mind. The Sweet Truth had turmoiled everyone's mind. Everyone now wanted to re-discuss the sale of the house, they no longer wanted to sell the house......anymore