THE FARMHOUSE

I entered the farmhouse late afternoon tired and hungry, something grandma Clementine took care of for dessert with a fresh batch of “sucre à la crème”, something I would tentatively translate to "creamy sugar treats". My bedroom was on top of the kitchen, a see-through floor register allowing hot air and hot gossip to rise to my attention. I fell asleep hearing a lot of laughter downstairs, not realizing that I was probably the butt of some jokes, a skinny city nerd imported to use big farm machines and care for farm animals, helping out a supremely self-sufficient woman, their own mother. I woke up early with a ray of light and soft whistling coming from downstairs, seemingly blowing through the register the aroma of toasts and bacon. I soon found out that country bread was toasted right on top of the stove, and, more importantly, that my grandma was the best whistler ever. She spoke little, smiled a lot and whistled when she worked, which was pretty much all the time. She was alone on her farm after her brood had left for city life. Out of her 16 living children, 6 to 10 would come visit every Sunday after mass. The two of us need to get ready for next Sunday, she explained calmly while capping the jam and putting away the breakfast plates.