The Gift of Solid Food
My grandmother turned 91 yesterday.
I went over there after work to sit with her for a while. My parents weren't home when I got there. I went in and said happy birthday to her. She said, "Yeah. I'm 98."
"You're 91, Grandma."
"Yeah. 91. You gonna have something to eat?"
"I think so. I'll go see what there is."
"There's chicken soup."
"OK. You want anything?"
"Yeah. I want chicken soup, if there's enough left."
"OK, I'll go check."
I went to check. There was no chicken soup anywhere. There was leftover pork roast, about half a pound of deli turkey and, inexplicably, about two and a half pounds of deli American cheese. Also a 12-pack of my grandmother's Ensure drink, which she pretty much lives on these days, much to my dismay.
I went back to report my findings.
"Oh," she murmured. "No soup? Well, I don't know, then."
"There are cold cuts. You want a sandwich?"
"OK. I could have a sandwich."
I went back to the kitchen and hauled out the turkey and the newer pound of cheese. I was much chagrined to discover that the turkey was two weeks old and slimy. Goddamn cold cuts.
I made the sandwich for her anyway, knowing full well that my grandmother's digestive system is very used to, and perhaps even prefers, food that has gone over. When she lived alone, her fridge and pantry used to be quite the horror show. We'd scold her as we flung green bread and wizened peaches into the trash, and she'd just go, "What? Don't throw it, that's still good!" And the cold cuts! A little slime and bacteria never bothered her; several times, I caught her blotting the slime off her cold cuts with a paper towel.
I cut the sandwich in two and brought it to her.
"What are you gonna have?" she asked.
"I think I'm gonna have a grilled cheese."
"Oh..." she looked up at me pleadingly.
I really should know better. My grandmother is never happy with what's she's given, especially food-wise. She always wants what you've got.
"You want a grilled cheese?"
"Yeah. I could have a grilled cheese."
"OK, I'll make us both grilled cheeses."
I took the sandwich away and threw it into the garbage in the kitchen. Then, for good measure, I went into the fridge, got the whole package of deli turkey, and threw that out too. Disgusting crap.
I couldn't find any butter in my parents' fridge. Just this huge tub of whatever that "Country Crock" stuff purports to be. It tastes buttery. Ish. I guess.
I slathered that all over the bread, inserted the cheese and made the sandwiches. They came out nice and crisp and gooey.
My grandmother was very pleased. She had almost finished one half of her sandwich by the time my parents came home.
"She's eating a sandwich," my mother commented. "It's a miracle."
I doubt it's a miracle. All I did was ask her if she wanted solid food for a freaking change.
After finishing half the sandwich, Grandma was "full" (probably more like "tired") and had my mother wrap up the other half. Twenty minutes later, she asked for it back. She ate the whole thing.
She does love her crap-food. I could barely get my own sandwich down me. I've made perfectly nice grilled cheeses before, but this one was awful for reasons I could not pinpoint. I think it was the Country Crock pseudo-butter's fault. Who can eat that shit?
I went over there after work to sit with her for a while. My parents weren't home when I got there. I went in and said happy birthday to her. She said, "Yeah. I'm 98."
"You're 91, Grandma."
"Yeah. 91. You gonna have something to eat?"
"I think so. I'll go see what there is."
"There's chicken soup."
"OK. You want anything?"
"Yeah. I want chicken soup, if there's enough left."
"OK, I'll go check."
I went to check. There was no chicken soup anywhere. There was leftover pork roast, about half a pound of deli turkey and, inexplicably, about two and a half pounds of deli American cheese. Also a 12-pack of my grandmother's Ensure drink, which she pretty much lives on these days, much to my dismay.
I went back to report my findings.
"Oh," she murmured. "No soup? Well, I don't know, then."
"There are cold cuts. You want a sandwich?"
"OK. I could have a sandwich."
I went back to the kitchen and hauled out the turkey and the newer pound of cheese. I was much chagrined to discover that the turkey was two weeks old and slimy. Goddamn cold cuts.
I made the sandwich for her anyway, knowing full well that my grandmother's digestive system is very used to, and perhaps even prefers, food that has gone over. When she lived alone, her fridge and pantry used to be quite the horror show. We'd scold her as we flung green bread and wizened peaches into the trash, and she'd just go, "What? Don't throw it, that's still good!" And the cold cuts! A little slime and bacteria never bothered her; several times, I caught her blotting the slime off her cold cuts with a paper towel.
I cut the sandwich in two and brought it to her.
"What are you gonna have?" she asked.
"I think I'm gonna have a grilled cheese."
"Oh..." she looked up at me pleadingly.
I really should know better. My grandmother is never happy with what's she's given, especially food-wise. She always wants what you've got.
"You want a grilled cheese?"
"Yeah. I could have a grilled cheese."
"OK, I'll make us both grilled cheeses."
I took the sandwich away and threw it into the garbage in the kitchen. Then, for good measure, I went into the fridge, got the whole package of deli turkey, and threw that out too. Disgusting crap.
I couldn't find any butter in my parents' fridge. Just this huge tub of whatever that "Country Crock" stuff purports to be. It tastes buttery. Ish. I guess.
I slathered that all over the bread, inserted the cheese and made the sandwiches. They came out nice and crisp and gooey.
My grandmother was very pleased. She had almost finished one half of her sandwich by the time my parents came home.
"She's eating a sandwich," my mother commented. "It's a miracle."
I doubt it's a miracle. All I did was ask her if she wanted solid food for a freaking change.
After finishing half the sandwich, Grandma was "full" (probably more like "tired") and had my mother wrap up the other half. Twenty minutes later, she asked for it back. She ate the whole thing.
She does love her crap-food. I could barely get my own sandwich down me. I've made perfectly nice grilled cheeses before, but this one was awful for reasons I could not pinpoint. I think it was the Country Crock pseudo-butter's fault. Who can eat that shit?