Lean

After dedicating my morning to studying, I made my way to the Riverview kitchen to enjoy a cup of coffee with Sr. Danette. As sunlight poured through the small window, casting light on the scattered mugs and coffee grounds, Danette enthusiastically delved into her love for stained glass artistry, skillfully integrating intricate techniques into our friendly conversation. She gracefully swirled her coffee while describing the detailed steps involved in creating a stained-glass window, highlighting that each glass piece, whether bright or subdued, carries its own distinct narrative. "Sr. Kevin emphasizes," she mentioned, "that choosing the appropriate glass is essential; it all hinges on how light plays with the colors." She elaborated on the careful technique of shaping the glass accurately and assembling it with copper or lead came, stressing the necessity of achieving perfect seals for the artwork's longevity. As she shared her insights, I could almost envision her hands expertly handling the materials under the guidance of the older nun. With each sip of our hot coffee, I found myself captivated not just by her newfound enthusiasm, but also by the vivid imagery her words conjured.

As we talked, Sister Agnes shuffled into the kitchen, carrying a newly cut steak from the pantry. Although she had never been tall, her slight figure appeared even more diminished as she hunched over, particularly when contrasted with the enormous cast-iron skillet she retrieved from beneath the counter and set on the stove. Following a recent heart disease diagnosis, she was encouraged to shift to a healthier diet, yet her heart longed for the familiar tastes of her past, especially that of a perfectly cooked steak. With determination, she gently unwrapped the steak, its marbled surface suggesting a tender richness that evoked memories of family feasts and treasured recipes. As Sister Agnes seasoned the meat, the kitchen filled with the fragrant scent of garlic and herbs before she began to tenderize it with a hammer that was nearly the size of her head. I couldn’t help but admire the petite chef, who appeared to be earnestly following her doctors' guidance; it must be challenging to establish new dietary habits at such a mature age.

The next scene unfolded like a moment plucked from a culinary melodrama, leaving Danette and I aghast. Sister Agnes, clad in an apron three sizes too big and well-worn shoes, opened a cupboard with an unusual air of mischief. In one swift motion, she extracted a giant tub of lard, which seemed almost out of place in a time dominated by olive oil and kale smoothies. As she added a hefty dollop into the eager pan, the sizzling sound filled the air, releasing an enticing aroma that blended with our mix of skepticism and curiosity. The stark contrast between the rich, creamy lard and the lean steak created an almost tangible culinary dissonance. I fought to stifle a gasp, avoiding eye contact with Danette for fear I might burst into giggles.

As the mouthwatering scent enveloped the small kitchen and a golden-brown crust developed on the steak, Sister Agnes pulled out a homemade loaf from a tin on the counter. She cut off a generous slice of the crusty delight to place on her plate before putting the remainder back. I found myself holding my breath in anticipation of what would occur next. Using a fork, the petite nun carefully removed the steak and positioned it on one side of her plate. To my utter shock, she then tossed the crusty bread into the pan to soak up the leftover lard on both sides before setting it alongside the steak on the plate. I could feel my arteries hardening as I rested my chin on my hands, determined to keep my mouth shut. With a sweet smile, she picked up her plate and utensils to join us at the table.

As Sister Agnes settled into her chair, the weighty silence that enveloped us was soon punctuated by the cheerful clinking of cutlery against ceramic. With eager anticipation, Danette and I exchanged bemused glances while observing Sr. Agnes savor each bite of her vegetable free meal. Her eyes sparkled with joy, a reflection of the comfort that came from indulging in flavors deeply rooted in her past. The combination of the rich steak and the buttery bread seemed to invigorate her spirit, and for a moment, the kitchen transformed into a warm sanctuary where dietary restrictions faded into the background.

"Life is too short not to savor the things we love," Sister Agnes declared with a twinkle in her eye, twirling her fork as if it were the wand of a skilled magician. "Especially when those things remind us of fond memories and the love that went into making them." Her words hung in the air, and a sense of camaraderie blossomed between the three of us, fueled by a shared appreciation for food that nourished not just the body, but also the soul.

Inspired by her sentiment, I cautiously retrieved a small piece of bread from the tin, daring to dip it into the remnants of lard in the pan, and with a quick glance at Danette, I took a bite. The dialogue of flavors was a revelation. I was instantly transported to the kitchens of my ancestors, where laughter and the aroma of hearty meals filled the air. As the tender richness of the steak mingled with savory bits of the pan-fried bread, I couldn't help but chuckle. It was as if Sister Agnes had woven a tapestry of memories across the table shared by three artists in their own right—one with stained glass, another with culinary craftsmanship, and me, an eager observer marveling at the graceful integration of our lives.

"Perhaps," I ventured, "you could add a few vegetables in the future." Sister Agnes shook her head thoughtfully, a knowing smile growing on her face.

And so, amid laughter, rich flavors, and the companionship that only kitchens can forge, we shared a cheerful hour on a sunny Saturday. In the heart of Riverview, as our voices danced in jubilant conversation, the sun continued to pour in through the window, illuminating not just the kitchen, but also our newfound bond that crossed the generations.