Meet My Grandma... Kind Of

I just finished making a traditional Canadian pork pie—Tourtière—for a ladies’ meeting tomorrow. The theme is “Meet My Grandma.” We’ve been encouraged to bring food, photos, and stories that remind us of our grandmothers—things they passed down, things we carry forward.

The truth is, I never actually met my grandmother. She was gone before I was born. I don’t know the sound of her laugh or how she wore her hair, except from a few old photographs. But in my French Canadian family, Tourtière was as essential as breathing. It graced holiday tables, warmed winter kitchens, and quietly stitched itself into the very fabric of our family.

I haven’t made one in 15 years. I figured it would be like riding a bike—except with ground pork and pie crust. Muscle memory and all that. Turns out, my muscles remembered. . . they just didn’t want to cooperate. I had to sit down twice just to catch my breath. At one point, I was negotiating with the pie crust like it was a hostage situation. “Just roll out nice and nobody gets hurt.” Maybe that’s age talking, or maybe it’s because when you’re younger, you don’t notice how much work goes into the things you take for granted—the chopping, the stirring, the seasoning, the slow patience of it all. Tradition, it turns out, is not fast food.

Still, something happened as I leaned over the stove. As much as I sweated over it, it felt good. Familiar. Like reaching back through time and grabbing hold of something solid. The smell—cinnamon, cloves, allspice, a hint of nutmeg—pulled me somewhere else. Into memories I didn’t know I had.

No, I never met my grandmother. I don’t know the sound of her voice or the stories she told. But I know the scent of her kitchen—or at least the one passed down through the hands and aprons of my family.

Suddenly, I was standing back in my aunt’s (her daughter’s) kitchen. Not the glossy, granite-counter kind, but the well-worn, no-nonsense kind that smelled like onions, boiling potatoes, and something always baking. The countertops were cluttered, the linoleum curled slightly at the edges, and the big wooden spoon had a permanent curve from decades of stirring. It made a soft, hollow thok-thok-thok against the pot, like a heartbeat in something warm and full, with the occasional shhhhrrp across the bottom that said, “Almost done.”

There was a low hum of conversation in French and English, dishes clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter. The radio played softly—AM talk shows or old familiar tunes.

There was always a pot simmering, something being peeled, and a cat that wasn’t allowed on the counter but didn’t care. The table had a vinyl tablecloth that stuck to your forearms if it was hot out, and you were expected to sit and stay awhile whether you wanted to or not.

I could almost see the older women in my family—quietly competent, sleeves rolled up, eyes kind but focused. Women I barely knew and yet somehow miss deeply. In all that chaos and warmth, there was peace. That kitchen worked. It fed people—not just food, but comfort, heritage, and a love that didn’t always get spoken out loud.

Tomorrow I’ll bring my Tourtière, a couple of old black-and-white photos, and a pie dish full of memories that aren’t exactly mine but somehow still belong to me. I may not have stories from my own lips, but I’ll have this—warm, flaky, a little lopsided, made with love. A dish that speaks where words fall short.

Bon appétit, Mémère. I hope I did you proud.

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