My grandmother is ninety three years old. She reminds us of this fact over and over again. Many of you have already read stories about her. Of my love for her, my respect, my frustration. All ordinary, really. Ordinary family mechanics.
Christmas is hard for the old who used to own it. We young people come in and make all kinds of demands about time and food and presents. We moan about being too busy and about our kids and about travel.
They forget the stress and remember it golden. They want it simpler. My gram is no exception.
Every year I've asked her to do a little less. Fewer cookies, fewer presents, come later.. leave earlier... la la la.
It's gotten to the point where she is only responsible for one thing on Christmas. The Ice Box Cake. For those of you who don't know what that is... wait. I'll put up a recipe and picture next week. All you need to know is PUDDING, YUMMMMMMMMM.
She's called five times today crying.
Call 1: "Was I supposed to bring something?"
Call 2: "I don't have the right pan!"
Call 3: "Is Rosy still allergic to bananas?"
Call 4. "I bought the wrong pudding!"
Call 5: "What is instant pudding anyway?"
I don't need the ice box cake. I have a million cookies. I just don't want her to cry. And she'll cry if I say don't make it. And she'll cry if I say make it. And she'll cry if...
She'll cry. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the wrong pudding. It's a world gone mad. It's a memory of loss. It's not her time.
But egads woman? Don't you remember your own rule? NO CRYING ON CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!
Tomorrow I'll get her a little tipsy on champagne and make her laugh.