Not Lady Gaga. My paternal grandmother. Long before I made my entrance into this world, an older cousin of mine struggled with saying “grandmother” when she was first learning to talk. The best she could manage was “Gaga” — and Gaga she remained for all generations to come until she died at 98.
I’m taking this little trip down memory lane because of a pot. No, not the kind you smoke or ingest.
My grandmother was a fabulous cook. All the women on both sides of my family were, but she was kind of unique because she eschewed any and all modern conveniences. As far as she was concerned, good Continue reading →
I was six or seven years old and we were up north for the summer. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day and I seemed to be alone with my grandmother, who is pictured here, at my parents’ wedding.
She was hanging freshly-washed sheets and clothes on the line and I was “helping” her. When we were done she asked if I was hungry, which I was. Must have been lunch time.
After we brought the empty laundry basket and the bucket of unused clothes pins back into the house, she grabbed a big bowl and we went out into the garden again. She explained how to tell if the tomatoes were ripe and then Continue reading →