Dear Diary,

Today I was baking some biscuits for breakfast and realized we were completely out of buttermilk. I felt kind of embarrassed because I had already promised a breakfast of biscuits and gravy and there I was, missing the key component.

Grandma was sitting in her rocker, sipping at her black pekoe as she always does at seven-thirty. Closed eyes, calm expression, a quiet grace about her. She rocks back and forth to a rhythm I can't feel. She emits serenity and there is a gleam in her eye I just can't understand. She knows her place in this world and it brings comfort to her.

I wish I could say the same..

I was trying not to panic as I dug through the cupboards for some sort of solution. Sausage gravy on pancakes doesn't sound too bad, does it?

Huh, that requires buttermilk, too...

Why am I constantly screwing up? Sure, this wasn't something terribly important, but still…

I can hear her voice from across the room. "Ah, I haven't had those crumbly biscuits in such a long time. My mother used to sell them at her shop, you know…"

The rocking chair was creaking along with my pacing on the old floorboards and I knew that she had picked up on my anxious behavior. I absolutely hate that if something's wrong, it's completely written on my face.

She was surely imagining being a young girl, sitting at the counter of the shop, shoveling her mother's home cooking in her mouth like there's no tomorrow.

I really hated the idea of taking that away from her with something as simple as forgetting to purchase buttermilk in advance.

I found myself wringing my apron between my fingers, staring into the bowl of flour with frustration. Jeff would've known what to do. My mind drew a blank and the sputtering pot of sausage gravy pulled me from my thoughts.

Of course this was the time that the gravy was perfectly seasoned - a slight kick from black pepper and cayenne, the milk providing a hint of sweetness, and the sausage taking the spotlight with savory flavor.

Huh, Jeff would have probably laughed at me for that description. Who do I think I am? The Gourmet?

With a quick stir and disappointed sigh, I dragged myself into the dining area, frustrated with myself for ruining a perfectly good meal. No sooner was I in front of her when she uttered a single world:

"Vinegar."

I blinked at her for a moment and wondered if she was thinking of things to add to the grocery list. Perhaps she wanted me to do some house cleaning - she always swore by the cleaning power of vinegar.

It's so hard to tell with Grandma Ellen sometimes, and I hate the slight twinge of guilt I always feel when I wonder if it's not me being confused, but rather, her mind is slipping instead.

"Mix some vinegar and milk and let it sit. Mom swore by it."

A weight is lifted off of my shoulders. "Ah, right! Thanks, Grandma!" I must've been muttering to myself again in the kitchen. I was pretty embarrassed at how flustered I got, but the biscuits seemed fluffier and tastier than usual this morning. I don't think it was solely the vinegar, though.

I wonder if I will ever get to that point she is at? Will I ever be brave enough to try to find my own solutions, or am I always going to be relying on others? Jeff always steps in at work if I botch a recipe. Grandma has a practical answer to everything. Greg always knows the right bait to use and what locations have the most fish.

Sometimes I really wonder if I'm too weak to stand on my own. Will I ever form my own ways of doing things, or is it just always going to be a collection of advice from others? Can I even call myself my own person?

Suddenly, the biscuits and gravy feel heavy in my stomach...

Sincerely,

Elli