Grandmas, Gratitude, and Peanut Brittle: The Sweetness of Empathy

Grandmas, Gratitude, and Peanut Brittle: The Sweetness of Empathy

When I look back over my life, I can honestly say my list of regrets is shorter than my list of kitchen gadgets. It’s been a jam-packed adventure—overflowing with opportunities, relationships that have blessed me more than I ever deserved, spiritual communities that have nurtured my soul, and a career in education that somehow managed to exceed even my wildest expectations. I’ve spent a lot of time focused on serving others, giving back for the good fortune I’ve enjoyed, and, yes, navigating a few personal speed bumps along the way.

Now, if I could wave a magic wand, there are three things I wish I’d mastered: playing the piano like a virtuoso, cooking like a Michelin-star chef, and writing like a Pulitzer winner. At 70, I’m working on the writing part (so watch out, New York Times!), and there’s still plenty of time to experiment in the kitchen. As for the piano, well, unless Liberace is offering lessons in the afterlife, I think that ship has sailed.

Some of my fondest memories are of hanging out with my grandmothers in their kitchens. Both were classic Midwest farm cooks—think “Iron Chef” meets “Little House on the Prairie.” Grandma Pressler had a garden that could feed a small army and canned enough vegetables to survive a zombie apocalypse. The thought of her homemade chili sauce still makes my mouth water, and her custard pies were the stuff of legend. She could turn Sunday dinner leftovers—roast, carrots, potatoes—into a gourmet hash for Monday night, complete with homemade yeast rolls and her famous ‘freezer’ corn (cut from the cob, blanched, frozen, and served with a generous dollop of butter). Everything tasted better because it was made with love—and probably a little extra butter.

Grandma Rhoads also had a garden, though she wasn’t quite as adventurous in the kitchen. But she had her specialties, and her peanut brittle was famous. I’ll never forget the day she invited me to learn her secret recipe. No candy thermometer needed—just Karo syrup, sugar, water, and a keen eye for when the syrup “spins a thread.” The peanuts cooked until they turned golden brown or “the color of an old golden wedding ring,” and then she’d add baking soda and a chunk of two tablespoons of oleo or “the size of two walnuts.” The whole thing would foam up like a science experiment gone right, and she’d pour it onto a greased sheet of foil. Thirty minutes later, we’d break it into pieces and marvel at our handiwork.

Every year, I try to keep the tradition alive by making her peanut brittle. When I do, I think back to those precious moments with both grandmothers and remind myself: it’s never too late to learn something new. So I’ll keep working on my cooking, striving to be a better writer, and maybe—just maybe—sign up for piano lessons in heaven. After all, who knows what electives they offer up there?

As I stir up memories in the kitchen and reflect on the tapestry of my life, I realize that the secret ingredient in every recipe—whether it’s peanut brittle or a Monday night hash—has always been empathy. My grandmothers didn’t just feed our bodies; they nourished our spirits, teaching me that a generous heart and a listening ear are just as important as a pinch of salt or a pat of butter.

Life, much like cooking, is best enjoyed with a dash of humor and a heaping spoonful of gratitude. I’ve learned that empathy isn’t just about understanding others—it’s about savoring the moments, embracing imperfections, and sharing the sweetness of life, even when things get a little rocky. So here’s to the grandmothers who taught me to cook with love, to the family and friends who’ve seasoned my journey, and to the ongoing adventure of learning, laughing, and living with empathy—on the rocks, neat, or however life serves it up.

Maybe someday, in a celestial kitchen, I’ll finally master the piano while whipping up a batch of peanut brittle. Until then, I’ll keep striving to be a better cook, a better writer, and above all, a more empathetic human—because that’s the recipe for a truly great life.

And because some traditions are too sweet not to share, I’m including Grandma Rhoads’ legendary Peanut Brittle recipe (in her handwriting). May it bring a little crunch, a lot of joy, and maybe even spark a few new memories in your own kitchen.