Grandma's Hands

As I watch my grandson growing up, it is fun to watch his unique personality emerge. Observing his mannerisms and how they frequently seem to mimic those of someone else in his life serves as a reminder of the myriad influences that shape what we are. Often the source of such influence is invisible to the casual observer – even the individual. This point was driven home some months back.

When experimenting with recipes it is not uncommon for me to estimate the measure of ingredients using my hand rather than seeking the precision of a measure cup or spoon. Over the years I've developed some accuracy using just my palm and crossing my fingers over each other to form a small bowl. Although I don't remember who first asked the question about how I held my fingers when measuring, it seemed at first to be an odd question. However, after thinking about it for bit, I wasn't really sure why I held my hand that way either. Observing the gaps between my skinny fingers led me to conclude I'd probably developed the habit to safely hold ingredients in my hand rather than allowing them to slide through the gaps to the floor. If anyone asked why (and some did), that was my answer.

Not so very long ago, while visiting with my mother, we were preparing something (biscuits, I think) in the kitchen. Looking down at her hands, I saw the same cup formed in her palm that was oft formed in mine - palm up, tip of the ring finger slightly over the edge of the index finger with the middle finger resting behind them, and the pinky dangling alongside. Given that I was not the one who taught her to cook, it seemed I now had an answer as to the source of my measuring technique. There it was, the invisible influence – her. More correctly stated it was me as a child observing her in the kitchen. Although that answered one question, it created another: why did she hold her hand that way? As one would expect, it was her mother who passed the technique to my mother.

Realizing the technique must have been passed from generation to generation in the same manner, I became quite curious as to why we did that. Were we too poor for generations to afford measuring utensils? Were we so uneducated that we didn’t understand basic math concepts – like fractions? Were we culinary wizards that evolved beyond the need for man-made kitchen gadgets? Had our family been cooking for so long that we pre-dated measuring devices? Any of these reasons would have made a great story, but none would be true. Due to an unfortunate farming accident as a child, my grandmother lost the two distal joints of her middle finger retaining only a nub. The only way she could keep things in her palm was to cross the index and ring fingers over the nub – thus – a tradition was born.

So, now I look at my grandson and wonder how he will hold his hand someday when it is time to measure ¼ cup of sugar. I wonder if he will be curious as to why?