Miranda
One of Miranda’s earliest memories was watching her grandmother, whom everyone called Nana, bake. She remembered flour covering the kitchen counter and lard stored in a container that seemed to be the size of a paint can. Miranda could instantly remember the smells and tastes of the cookies and cakes. While Nana would dump ingredients into a bowl, Miranda never recalled seeing anything that resembled a recipe anywhere in the kitchen. Nana would form her aged and weathered hand into a cup and pour sugar into it, seeming to use the bends of her fingers as measuring lines. Any liquid pours seemed much less precise to Miranda at first, until one day, watching the creations being developed, she saw Nana mouthing the words, “Un, deux, trois.”
Miranda’s favorite experience in the kitchen was when Nana would pull out the pink, hand mixer that looked to be one hundred years old to Miranda’s young eyes. Popping in the silver beaters, Miranda would wait for the hum of the motor only to be eclipsed by the noisy rattle of the beaters against the side of the glass bowl. Thinking back, Miranda figured this was always her favorite experience because Nana would give her the beaters to lick when the mixing was done.
As opposed to the hand mixer, on the other end of the mixing spectrum was the monster, standing mixer on the counter near the oven. Miranda remembered a silver, metal plate riveted on the side with “Hobart” written in large, red letters. The green paint, that at one time was probably shiny was wearing thin, revealing a silver color underneath. Reserved mostly for bread making, the low rumble and “thud, thud, thud” of the dough being beaten by the mixing paddles scared Miranda the first time she saw Nana use it. Eventually Miranda enjoyed the rhythmic beating of the bread dough and would dance around the kitchen to the “thud, thud, thud,” her only disappointment being there would be nothing sweet to lick when the mixing was done.
For Miranda, going to Nana’s house was a treat she always looked forward to. It was normally on the weekends, and as a child, Miranda never put it together that her mom would drop her off at Nana’s so that her mom wouldn’t have to take care of her over the weekend. At Nana’s, Miranda would feel love envelope her, but at her parents’ house love seemed to be missed most of the days.
It was a cold, winter morning when, one Saturday, Miranda’s mom came to her room sobbing, and in a soft voice said, “Miranda, honey, we won’t be able to go to Nana’s anymore.”
“Why, mama?”
“Your Nana passed away last night. She is no longer with us.”
“I don’t understand?” inquired Miranda.
Through her tears, Miranda’s mom did her best to try to explain that people eventually aren’t alive any more, and then tried to explain the concept of heaven to a six year old who couldn’t understand. Miranda just became more and more confused.
“When she comes back from heaven, can I go see her?”, asked Miranda, thinking a trip to heaven was like a vacation.
Agitated, her mom exclaimed, “She’s dead, Miranda!” Trying to come up with anything Miranda might relate to, her mom brought up when the family dog died.
“Remember how Petey died last year and isn’t with us any more.”
Tears started to come to Miranda’s eyes as she became frightened by her mom’s outburst, “No.”
“Well, Nana’s dead and you will never be able to see her again.”
Miranda burst completely into tears.
That was the day Miranda truly learned about death. It was also the day she never wanted to see anyone bake anything ever again.
As the years went by, Miranda had what many would consider a generic life in the suburbs. Her parents didn’t take that much of an interest in anything she did, and they always steered her in the direction of business whenever she would ask what she should do with her life. Her father was a mechanic and would rarely attend any of Miranda’s school activities, and it was lucky if her mom made it to half of them. It was usually just Miranda, on her own.
While her dad repaired cars, Miranda’s mom was employed as an office manager for a lawyer. Her mom felt that the same office manager career path would be fine for Miranda. In her heart, though, Miranda’s mom just wanted her to eventually have children so that she could show to the neighbors how good of a grandmother she was.
As Miranda made her way through grade school and high school, she always had trouble making long-term friends. She wasn’t an outcast, but she never made a connection with anyone. Looking back, Miranda believed she kept to herself because she was embarrassed of her family. The few times she brought people over, her dad would be in a lounge chair in dirty jeans and a white t-shirt, drinking beer, and making slightly inappropriate comments to her friends.
Her mom didn’t help. Whenever Miranda had people over, she would smoke in the house and, instead of letting Miranda play with her friends, would pull Miranda away from them, insisting that she finish her chores. Miranda felt the chores could wait, and she would get them done eventually, but her mom wanted to appear to Miranda’s friends as the adult in charge.
Miranda was better than average in school, with mostly B’s through high school and a few A’s, but the only option for college that Miranda could afford was the local, community college. At the urging of her parents she went the path of business administration. As far as her mom was concerned, this was the perfect way for Miranda to get her “Mrs. Degree.”
Miranda, though, never felt fulfilled and was jealous of the few friends she had who went to out-of-state schools, able to get away from their families. She also didn’t like business administration, but could never put her finger on what would give her joy.