How to Lose Weight Naturally. My Sweet Memories
I cherish memories of my 96-year-old grandmother, whose guiding hands taught me the art of kneading dough. We would prepare creamy polenta, filling our home with warmth and laughter. This not only created food but also a deep bond and lasting memories.
My great-grandmother always carried walnuts in her pocket, and I vividly remember her savouring them while enjoying homemade brown flatbread at her 107th birthday celebration.
I was thrilled to indulge in my Grandma's freshly baked bread, my mom's delightful cookies, and an array of mouthwatering homemade meals and treats. Each bite was a celebration filled with joy and gratitude. The enchanting aromas and flavours of the dishes lovingly prepared in Mama’s kitchen remain a wonderful part of my memories.
My Sweet Memories
My childhood’ Ingredients
Kindness
Love
Hearty meals and wonderful homemade goodies
Care and support
Safety and peace
When I reflect on my childhood, I often find myself enveloped in memories of the comforting meals my mother and grandmothers lovingly crafted.
Picture the enticing aroma wafting through the air as freshly baked bread and golden pastries rise in a traditional wood-fired clay oven, their crusts crackling as they cool. I can almost see the vibrant colours of pickled cucumbers, the deep red hue of sun-ripened tomatoes, and the crisp crunch of homemade sauerkraut lining the table, each jar a testament to time-honoured recipes. The taste of velvety homemade butter spread across warm bread, alongside silky freshly made cheese and a selection of vividly coloured jams and marmalades, creates a sensory experience that stays with us for a lifetime.
I can see our huge garden with fresh vegetables and luscious fruits flourish, each a product of dedicated hard labour and nurturing from our parents. The sights, smells, and tastes of these homegrown delights remind me of the simplicity of homemade food and the joy of sharing meals with my family.
I have a story, very dear to my heart, to tell you.
“Once upon a time, a woman stood before the chicken house, her heart heavy with worry about what lay ahead. She whispered to herself, "I have to do this. God, please help me," as she gathered her courage. With gentle hands, she quickly collected ten eggs from the clucking hens and placed them carefully in a small basket. “Where are we going, Mummy?” her daughter asked, her wide, innocent eyes sparkling with curiosity. “To find you some beautiful dresses,” she replied, trying to instil a sense of hope and joy despite the weight on her shoulders.
And so, they walked: a woman cradling her baby in one arm and holding a basket in the other, while another little girl, full of wonder, clung to her apron, her eyes darting around in fascination. As they approached the barracks, a soldier on duty shouted, “Stop right where you are!” His voice was strong and authoritative. The woman’s heart raced, and fear gripped her tightly. “I’ve brought you ten fresh eggs,” she said, her voice quivering with vulnerability. “My daughter wants a new dress, and I was hoping you could help me find an old, unused soldier’s coat.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she spoke, the baby clinging to her neck while her sister nervously hid behind the long, tattered fabric of their mother’s dress. For a moment, the soldier softened, pausing to consider her plea. “Wait here,” he commanded gently, understanding that hope could still blossom amid the hardships they faced.
It felt like an eternity as she clutched the baby, desperately trying to calm her other daughter. He returned with an old, rugged soldier's coat and softly said, “I’ll take five eggs. Now go home and feed your girls.” His kindness filled her eyes with tears of gratitude and left her speechless.
The dresses Grandma lovingly sewed endured through the years following the war. Tragically, her husband never returned to help raise their daughters and was declared lost in combat. Twenty-nine years later, the baby Margareta would become my extraordinary mom.”
This touching story unfolded through my Grandma's gentle recollections, filled with the details she held dear. Her eyes were often filled with sadness, reflecting the weight of her memories, and she spoke fondly of the soldiers who had passed through her life.
It makes you wonder how all this connects to the bigger picture and what happened next. After the war, she became a chef, working tirelessly in a makeshift kitchen to feed the men labouring on tractors and ploughs around the clock. It was a challenging time as everyone longed to restore some sense of normalcy, cultivating the land and seeking ways to make life bearable again. Those hardworking men came to her kitchen, tired and hungry, and she took it upon herself to ensure they received fulfilling and delicious meals with whatever meagre ingredients she could gather.
Grandma had an incredible talent for making the most of what she had. The workers' gratitude filled and warmed her heart; they often requested second and third servings, marvelling at her hearty and satisfying meals.
From my mom and Grandma, I learned to embrace the love of cooking, create meals from scratch, and appreciate the simple joy of homemade dishes. With them, I discovered the vibrant flavours of fresh ingredients and how a sprinkle of salt and pepper can elevate a meal to new heights. This wisdom is my legacy, gift, and treasured secret passed down through generations.
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