On Grandma Bess Journal Entry #2

Food for Thought. Wine for Wonder.

On Grandma Bess

Garner, Iowa.

A small farm town that felt like a different world from the rhythm of south Minneapolis. Out there, the silence wasn’t quiet—it was alive. As a child, the sounds of the farm at night unsettled me… the wind, the creaks, the unknown.

But then there was my grandma.

Grandma Bess lived alone, but she was never quiet. From the upstairs bedroom, there was a vent you could look through, and her voice would rise up so clearly—her own nightly ritual. Talking through her day, listing what needed to be done, reflecting, remembering.

And somehow, that sound grounded me.
It soothed me.
It helped me fall asleep.

Summer days were simple.

I remember sitting in an old chair, the sun warming everything around me, shucking fresh corn and peas while cats wandered nearby and her dog Lassie kept watch. Her garden was endless to me—rows of life, patience, and purpose. Downstairs, her basement shelves were lined with jars of everything she had preserved: pickles, jams, things put away with care for another day.

We would walk through the cornfields, and I would disappear into my imagination. It was peaceful in a way the city never allowed. Time moved slower. The air felt different—easier.

And sometimes, in the height of summer…
we ate corn. Just corn.

Because it was perfect.

Sweet, fresh, picked at its peak.
Just butter. Just salt. Nothing else.

Even now, when corn finds its way onto my menu at Molly’s, it’s never just a dish. It’s a tribute.

Growing up overweight was extremely difficult. It left me hurt, frustrated, and sad more often than I like to admit. Food was comfort—but also, at times, felt like the enemy. Comments from even the closest people in my life cut deep and stayed with me.

But not with her.

Grandma Bess never saw anything but me.

At night, we’d share a simple ritual—ice cream before bed. Usually Neapolitan or butter brickle. Just one scoop. Nothing extravagant. Just ours.

Those summers were quiet. Different. Sometimes even boring. But they were also my escape. The air was easier to breathe. Nature was everywhere. Time took longer to pass.

Her house always smelled like something warm and alive.

Fresh bread. Cinnamon rolls. Kolaches—her Czech roots woven into everything she made. She made paper-thin omelets that stretched across the whole plate, just eggs and milk whipped together. I would cover them in butter and syrup. Only grandma made them that way.

Her bread pudding wasn’t like mine now at Molly’s. It was simple—plain bread, milk, raisins.

And now, at this point in my life and in my kitchen, I find myself coming back to that same truth:

Simple is better.

Let the ingredients speak. Let them find balance. Let them create their own harmony on the plate.

Grandma Bess passed while I was in culinary school.

Sudden. Unexpected. Too soon.

She was stubborn, active, and so full of life. She was proud of me—proud that I was pursuing cooking. She knew me. She understood my struggles and accepted me exactly as I was.

I wrote her a poem and read it at her funeral. I remember barely being able to get the words out.

Her birthday just passed—March 25.
It’s been 26 years.

And I still miss her.

There are so many moments I wish she could have been here for.

But I know she is with me. Every day.

I’m finally becoming the person I always wanted to be—the one that younger version of me was too afraid to believe in for far too many years.

And I know she would be proud.

I want to bring her recipes back to life at Molly’s.

The pickling. The canning. The things she carefully preserved and tucked away. They are treasures that shouldn’t stay closed in a book. They deserve to be shared.

We all need that person who truly sees us.

Not the labels. Not the struggles. Not the expectations placed on us.

She never saw the overweight child.
The confused teenager.
The young woman trying to figure out love and career.
The woman navigating a life that didn’t include children and feeling judged for it.

She just saw me.

Every holiday, every trip to Iowa felt special because of her. She was the greatest host, the warmest hug, the one who never sat down, who ate last, and who couldn’t rest until everyone else was safe and tucked in.

I see so much of her in me now.

I just wish it hadn’t taken me so long to believe it.

With grace & gratitude,
Molly 🖤