During her childhood, my grandmother was banned from the huge farmhouse kitchen while her mother Sarah Lola cooked or baked for the farmhands who worked on the family dairy.

The story goes that the elder woman was very exacting. She’d married later in life and had spent her maiden days working, first as a milliner, then as a bookkeeper at McNaughton’s Department Store.

She was set in her ways.

Read more: From double-sided cabinets to persimmon pudding: Four generations in and out of the kitchen

Years ago, Mamaw told me that at times, her mother Lola carried a tiny notebook. That was when her husband Roby knew something was afoot. Something that would involve him, and often require a hammer.

In her notebook, my great-grandmother sketched out the changes she envisioned in their home. Sometimes, it involved building from scratch, but at others, it was just remodeling: either way, she determined to add a touch of beauty or efficiency to her daily life. She jotted and drew, erased and revised, until she had her renovation projects planned just right. Then it was time for Roby to take over with the construction.

I appreciate her attitude and her practices. At the heart of her beautification projects, she was journaling, and I shout the praises of keeping journals whenever possible.

Two generations later, my mother, whose childhood days were spent trekking across the orchard and through the chicken yard to “Ah’s” house, remembers her grandmother’s unique ideas.

Like my grandmother, my mother also was not allowed into Grandma Sarah’s kitchen, but after washing her feet at the pumphouse well, she could come inside and watch “Ah,” as she called her, from the nearby. If Mom were lucky, she could set the dining room table–that meant company was coming.

That was where the double-sided cabinets divided the two rooms and saved my great-grandmother so many steps. Ah could wash dishes and put them away in the kitchen cupboards, but later stand in the dining room to open the second set of doors and quickly set the table.

But more often than not, Mom spent time outside while Ah was in the kitchen. She sometimes fed crackers to the fish in the small pond just outside the back porch, but always with Ah watching out the kitchen window. Sometimes, she visited Grandpa Roby in the barn and stood in awe of his great big racehorse, Rex. Sometimes, she rode on the rope and pulley system he had rigged up between the tall walnut trees along the driveway–an early zipline!

Indoors, Ah wasn’t only efficient; she was a good cook. Or so Mom remembers. She must’ve been, with the dairy workers and family to feed every day!

Maybe that was because no one ever interfered.

I kinda like some interference.

Our only grandchild visits us too infrequently. She lives about three hours away, so it’s a bit of a production to drive up and back to bring her to our house, even though she’s a seasoned traveler.

She’s also an excellent helper.

And she’s always liked nothing better than helping me in the kitchen, no matter what the task. But then, what kid doesn’t like messing around in a sinkful of water, scrubbing vegetables straight from the garden, or soaping up dirty dishes?

With her mother a highly experienced baker and chef, and her dad an adventurous eater, our sweet girl is somewhat precocious in her food knowledge and experiences. She talks about truffles and oils and types of Asian noodles as often and easily as she does PowerPuff Girls.

One winter day during her school break, we went on a “field trip” to an Asian supermarket in Indianapolis. She recognized more vegetables and packaged products than I did, even though I’m the one who has spent time in China, Japan, and India!

Last summer on our way to California, we stopped to eat at a casino in the New Mexico desert. Our girl ordered lamb stew. Lamb stew! I was looking for a nice Cobb salad on the menu, but her eyes immediately lit on something unusual, and something she loved. Lamb!

She’s always surprising us with her food stories and choices.

My teacher nature always wants to leave her with a new experience, but it isn’t easy.

When she’s at our house, I try to find something old-fashioned or unusual to do in the kitchen. She’s collected ripe persimmons from the frozen, leaf-covered ground and then squished the persimmon pulp through Ah’s old ricer to make Mamaw’s persimmon pudding recipe.

She’s also used my new flour mill attachment to help grind and bake muffins from freshly milled einkorn berries. We experiment, too, adding unusual fruits, nuts, and savory spice combinations to our baked goods.

Together, my interests and her unique enthusiasm keep much of our fun centered in the kitchen. And although she’s really Grandpa’s girl at heart, this is our time. Time I will never get back.

And I treasure it.

My mom lost both her beloved grandparents suddenly and at the same time. She was ten–just like our granddaughter.

Even now, at age ninety, Mom still remembers the long-distance phone call that she answered. The one that informed the family that the couple had died in a freakish motel accident while traveling in Florida.

But that accident wasn’t their legacy.

Mom also still sighs, remembering how luxurious it felt in the evenings when Ah brushed her hair a hundred times as she sat on a tiny stool at her feet and then read her a story before bedtime.

“Sweet memories of the good old days,” she says.

And all the more reason to spend time together, with my granddaughter, cooking in the kitchen, picking and tasting vegetables in the garden, and reading together before bedtime. Really, anywhere!

I hope we’ve been making memories that’ll last ninety years, too.