She was always a creature of habit, a fact I found both comforting and anxiety producing. Meals were served at the same time every day. Breakfast was at 8:00, and if, as was often the case, I had slept over, we would decide the menu the night before. Waffles, scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, cold cereal, half a grapefruit. These were all options. She would sit perched on the edge of my bed, covered with a quilt she had made herself with scraps of Pendleton wool, and ask me, so what's the menu? It was a fun game and one I never tired of.
Lunch was served at exactly noon, when the siren in town went off. If I was playing at the neighbors house this was the sound that let me know I had sixty seconds to run across the street to the mint green house my grandparents lived in and wash my hands, before I'd get in trouble. The mid-day meal varied more than any other. It ranged from cold cuts and fresh Italian bread purchased from Little Italy, the local shop in town that sold bread from Arthur Avenue and fresh mozzarella, to home made wedding soup with oyster crackers to cottage cheese and cantaloupe, a personal favorite of mine. My grandparents watched the Young and the Restless like it was their job, so lunch was always eaten and cleaned up completely by 12:30, as not to interrupt our viewing of the program.
Dinner was no less structured. Somewhere in their lives they had decided that 5:30 was the appropriate time for the dinner hour and they just stuck with that. The only exception would be Thanksgiving and Easter, both holidays that meals were serve at two. When I think of a dinner that my grandmother cooked, one always comes to mind. I don't think she cooked it more often than other meals, and yet this is the one that is seared in my brain. London broil with mashed potatoes and broccoli. She cooked the meat under the broiler and let it rest before slicing it on a wooden cutting board and transferring it to a platter. She'd put a few slices on my plate, with broccoli heavy on the garlic and a mountain of mashed potatoes with a little well of gravy in the middle. As a kid, that well of gravy was awesome. That she could do that was magical to me.
Lunch was served at exactly noon, when the siren in town went off. If I was playing at the neighbors house this was the sound that let me know I had sixty seconds to run across the street to the mint green house my grandparents lived in and wash my hands, before I'd get in trouble. The mid-day meal varied more than any other. It ranged from cold cuts and fresh Italian bread purchased from Little Italy, the local shop in town that sold bread from Arthur Avenue and fresh mozzarella, to home made wedding soup with oyster crackers to cottage cheese and cantaloupe, a personal favorite of mine. My grandparents watched the Young and the Restless like it was their job, so lunch was always eaten and cleaned up completely by 12:30, as not to interrupt our viewing of the program.
Dinner was no less structured. Somewhere in their lives they had decided that 5:30 was the appropriate time for the dinner hour and they just stuck with that. The only exception would be Thanksgiving and Easter, both holidays that meals were serve at two. When I think of a dinner that my grandmother cooked, one always comes to mind. I don't think she cooked it more often than other meals, and yet this is the one that is seared in my brain. London broil with mashed potatoes and broccoli. She cooked the meat under the broiler and let it rest before slicing it on a wooden cutting board and transferring it to a platter. She'd put a few slices on my plate, with broccoli heavy on the garlic and a mountain of mashed potatoes with a little well of gravy in the middle. As a kid, that well of gravy was awesome. That she could do that was magical to me.
My visit today made me miss her, the old her that is almost lost to me now, and the new her, that still knows me and wants me to visit more. I promised her I would be back next week and described to her the snacks I would bring, much like when I was eight and she would sit on the edge of my bed and recite my breakfast options, night after night. And she would always say the same thing as she walked out the door, after planting a kiss on my forehead, "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite."
Thank you for sharing in this experience with me Bagel Boss.
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