The Kitchens That Made Me

Lessons from Grandma Helen’s Kitchen

The Kitchens That Made Me is a collection of stories about the people and places that shaped how I cook, eat, and gather. Each kitchen carries more than recipes. They hold lessons about care, creativity, patience, and love.

Grandma Helen, my father’s mother, was the quintessential grandmother.

She had the same hairstyle from her mid-twenties onward. Her striking red hair, slowly turned to gray hair set in tight, generous curls, always impeccably styled. A kind of 1950s bombshell “do,” softened by age and warmth. She almost always wore a smile, unless on rare occasions we managed to unfurl her humor with our bratty behavior.

We visited her at least one weekend every month, and somehow she always had a plan for us.

She gardened with us on her hands and knees. I remember the day I angered a bumblebee hive with poking sticks and pure childhood curiosity. When I was stung on my big toe, she calmly whipped out her pocketknife, cut an “X” shape in to my toe and started sucking the poison out. No Urgent Care.  No drama. No fear. Just care.

One summer, we grew the oddest-looking carrots I have ever seen, yes even to this day, and we ate them proudly. Misshapen, knotted, imperfect, and delicious. She made food feel earned. She had us cut each one up and see if we could taste any differences?  An interesting lesson noted, in that outward appearances may not be everything they are cut out to be. 

But the kitchen was where Grandma Helen truly shined. She made it fun.
If we made a mess, no problem. We would clean it later.
If we dropped an egg, no problem. What could we learn from it?
If a glass shattered, so what. She would help us glue it back together as a craft the next day.

Nothing was wasted. Not food. Not mistakes. Not moments.

When we were little, it was about the balance of colors on the plate. As we grew older, she taught us recipe planning and meal budgeting. But the most fun was digging through what we already had on hand and matching it to a recipe. She taught us creativity before she taught us precision.

Most weekends, she prepared our favorites, but there was always room for one new recipe. That is where I flourished with her.

One weekend, my cousin and I learned to make Chicken Kiev from scratch. Grandma explained it came from our ethnic background, and I remember thinking, and probably saying out loud, that those people must have been very rich. Butter, chicken, herbs. Nothing about that recipe felt modest. Grandma just laughed.

Why Chicken Kiev Still Matters

Chicken Kiev was the first dish that made me understand that cooking could feel luxurious, even when made at home. Butter folded with herbs, carefully sealed inside chicken, then cooked until the center melted open. It felt extravagant to me as a child, almost ceremonial.

What I remember most is the butter.  I mean, who doesn’t love butter?!

Not butter pulled cold from the fridge, but butter that had to wait. We set it out and let it soften naturally, learning patience before we ever touched a knife. Then came the herbs. Parsley, dill, garlic. Everything chopped by hand, slowly and carefully, because rushing would bruise the leaves and dull their flavor.

We mixed it all together, tasting as we went, then shaped it and chilled it again so it could become something new. That transformation took time. It demanded attention. It taught me that some parts of cooking cannot be rushed without losing their soul.

Looking back, I realize the lesson was never about indulgence. It was about intention. Grandma Helen taught me that certain recipes are meant to slow you down. You do not rush butter into chicken. You plan for it. You respect the process.

That weekend in her kitchen planted something in me. A belief that food can be both practical and special. That even a simple meal can carry heritage, generosity, and a sense of occasion.

Chicken Kiev is still how I think about cooking when I want to cook with purpose.

Another lesson Grandma taught me, one that stuck, was about greed.

Apparently, I always positioned myself first in the serving line. I do not know why. Maybe I felt entitled. Maybe I was fast. Maybe I was just always hungry.

One afternoon, when I was about nine or ten, I rushed to the front as usual. Grandma gently pulled me aside.

“Now, Lisa,” she said, “you don’t always have to be first. Sometimes offering your place shows grace. It shows respect. It shows you are growing up.”

Then she added, “Don’t you think your baby brother should go first?”

I remember feeling miffed. Why should he go before me? But I offered him the spot anyway. Then I offered the next spot to my cousin. Before I knew it, I was eating last.

And I felt really good.

Grandma won again. Another lesson delivered quietly, without shame or force.

Sometimes, being last is winning.

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From my kitchen to yours, with room to wander. Happy creating.❤️

Coming soon: A Grandma Helen–Inspired Chicken Kiev, Made from Scratch