The Story of Orvilda — From Her Kitchen, With Love

The Story of Edna Orvilda

From Her Kitchen to Mine

My grandma, Edna Orvilda, was one of the strongest women I have ever known.

She grew up in Stanley, North Dakota, one of fourteen children born to Norwegian parents who knew how to work hard, live simply, and make the most of what they had. She lived through the Great Depression, and that kind of life teaches you things you never really forget.

Grandma Did Not Waste Anything

I remember how she would save the paper wrappers from sticks of butter after the butter was gone. She would fold them back up, tuck them into the ice box, and later use them to butter her toast.

And yes, we really called the refrigerator the ice box. That was the only word I heard at home, and I called it that well into my teenage years before I realized most people did not say it that way.

That was Grandma’s world. Nothing was wasted. Everything had a second use. A little butter left on a wrapper was still butter, and she was not about to throw that away.

Our Kitchen Was Always Filled With Love

Later, when life brought us together under one roof, Grandma became my anchor — steady, kind, practical, and always moving in the kitchen.

I was blessed to grow up living with my grandma, my mom, and my brother. My mom worked a lot to support us, so Grandma was the one who was there in the everyday moments. She was the one I watched. The one I listened to. The one whose ways settled into me before I even realized they were becoming part of who I am.

Our kitchen was never fancy, but it was always filled with love. Something was always cooking, baking, cooling, or waiting on the counter. Grandma had a way of making simple food feel special, and somehow there was always enough for whoever showed up hungry.

The Things That Stay With You

One of my clearest memories is standing beside Grandma while she peeled potatoes. No cutting board. No special tools. Just her hands, a small paring knife, and years of practice.

She could peel a potato in one long, thin spiral, so thin you could almost see through it. The peel would fall away in soft curls while she kept talking to me like it was nothing at all.

I never could do that...I use a potato peeler.

But I still think about those potatoes every time I make dinner. It was such an ordinary thing, but with Grandma, it felt like a small kind of magic.

Midwest Roots and a California Kitchen

I was born in Indiana and raised on casseroles, roasts, hot dishes, homemade noodles, lefse, and the kind of recipes that show up at church potlucks and family tables without needing much explanation. Those Midwest roots are stitched into everything I cook.

In the 70s, life took our family to California. Suddenly there were avocados, tacos, fresh citrus, and farmers’ markets. I still remember tasting those foods and realizing there was a whole world beyond the comfort food I grew up with. I loved that too.

So my kitchen became a little bit of both: the Midwest food I came from and the California kitchen I grew into.

“You’ll Know When It’s Right”

When Grandma was in her eighties, she went back to Indiana because of health issues. By then, I had moved into my own life, but I still called her when I wanted to know how to make the dishes I missed most.

I wanted exact measurements. I wanted tidy instructions. I wanted to know if it was a cup, a half cup, a teaspoon, or a handful.

She would laugh softly and say, “Oh, Kimmy, you’ll know when it’s right.”

A pinch of this. A little more of that. Stir it until it looks right. Cook it until it feels done.

The Pineapple Cheese Salad Lesson

One recipe I remember calling her about was a pineapple cheese salad she used to make. It was so good, and I had never attempted it on my own.

I sat there with a pen and paper, writing down everything she told me: pour in some of the pineapple juice, cut the marshmallows into small pieces, then pour the heated juice over the mixture.

Of course, I had to ask her, “Why would I cut up marshmallows when I can just buy the little ones?”

She explained, in that funny Grandma way, that yes, it was a little more work, but the heated pineapple juice would not melt the mini marshmallows and cheese the right way. The bigger marshmallows had to be cut so they would soften just enough and turn gooey the way they were supposed to.

Well, of course I tried it with the mini marshmallows anyway.

And sure enough, she was right.

The marshmallows stayed too solid, and they did not have that soft, gooey texture that made the salad taste the way I remembered it.

That was Grandma. She knew the little things that made a recipe work. Things that did not always make sense until you tried doing it another way.

Her Recipes Lived in Her Hands

At the time, that was not always helpful. But now I understand.

Her recipes lived in her hands, not on recipe cards. She knew the feel of dough, the smell of something almost done, the way a sauce should look, and how much of something to add because she had done it so many times.

I remember when she made homemade noodles and set them inside the cabinet to dry. I would sneak pieces and eat them while they dried. Funny enough, both of my girls did the same thing.

They were good. What can I say?

And when Grandma made lefse, my brother and I could eat it almost as fast as she cooked it. Warm, soft, spread with butter, sprinkled with sugar, and gone in about two seconds.

Always Make Extra

Grandma always made more food than we needed.

She would say it was better to have extra because people always show up at supper time.

And she was right.

Somehow, they did. Maybe they knew something good was being made. Maybe they knew there was always room. Maybe that is just what happens when a kitchen feels like home.

Learning to Stretch, Adapt, and Feed My Family

I was married young and had two daughters. Money was tight, and I had to learn how to make meals everyone liked while still making it work with what we could afford.

I learned how to stretch ingredients, substitute when I needed to, and turn simple food into something my family looked forward to.

In a way, Grandma had already taught me that.

Not by sitting me down with a lesson, but by letting me grow up watching how she lived.

Some of these recipes are Grandma’s. Some come from my mom and my aunt. Some are mine, because I have been cooking for my family for a long time too.

And yes, my enchiladas will absolutely be included, because some of the best family recipes come from learning how to make something good out of what you have.

Why I’m Finally Writing It Down

For years, I have wanted to write these recipes down.

My girls and my granddaughter call or text me asking how to make things, and most of the time I send it from memory because I do not have everything written down either.

When my mom passed in 2022 and my aunt passed within weeks, it took me back to Indiana.

I found myself in the family home, surrounded by generations of handwritten notes, recipe scraps, little pieces of paper, and memories tucked into drawers and cabinets.

Some of them barely looked like recipes. A little of this. A little of that. Bake until done. The kind of instructions that only make sense if you grew up watching someone cook.

Someday Is Now

I kept thinking, someday I am going to do this.

Someday I am going to gather these recipes.

Someday I am going to preserve them.

Someday I am going to write them down so they are not lost.

And finally, I realized someday is now.

Food Is Love in Our Family

In our family, food is love.

We gather around food. We celebrate with food. We remember people through food. Every family get-together has those dishes someone asks for before they even walk in the door.

This website is my way of keeping that alive.

It is for Grandma Orvilda. It is for my mom. It is for my aunt. It is for my girls and my granddaughters. And it is for anyone who believes homemade food still matters.

Some recipes will be old-fashioned. Some will be updated with the ingredients I use today. Some will be simple, and some will take a little more time. Some will be exactly the way I remember them, and some will be my own version after years of making them for my family.

But they all come from the same place.

A kitchen full of memories.

A table where there was always enough.

And a grandma named Orvilda, who taught me that good food does not have to be fancy to be unforgettable.

Her very blessed Granddaughter...

Kimberly Savonne