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On Being Myy Own Grandmother



 If my grandmother were still alive she'd turn one hundred sixteen today.  If she were alive today she'd make me My-T-Fine Chocolate pudding with almonds, the kind you cook on top of the stove.  We'd stand there in front of her big gas cooker and I'd watch as she stirred the pudding with a big wooden spoon slowly making figure eights until the pudding got thicker and thicker, finally burping big bubbles of deep brown chocolate love.  She'd pour the hot molten chocolate into her cracked green bowl and put it in the fridge until a skin formed on the top.  When she decided it was cool enough and the skin was ready, she'd take the pudding out , scrape the skin carefully off onto a saucer and hand it to me saying, "Here, don't tell your brother I gave this skin to you.  He likes it, too."  I knew for that one moment, in that small warm kitchen with a cracked linoleum floor, I was special, I was loved.

There are days that I wish that instead of being a grandmother, I had a grandmother.  The past couple of weeks have had lots of wishing I had a grandmother days.  I have a stash of My-T-Fine Chocolate Pudding that my friend, Anita, sent me from Connecticut.  I'm going to go now and be my own grandmother...

Reader Comments (1)

Sometimes being your own "family" is all you have until you find the right someone, or in this case something to bring you back to where you belong; Loved in the past, present and future.

July 16, 2013 | Unregistered CommenterJC

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