Jan. 23--Dear Grandmother,
The plane tickets and rental car are squared away. My wife and I got time off from work. So all is well with our plans to visit you in California next month for your 92nd birthday.
Unfortunately, the question you asked seconds after I told you we were coming, the one that I've had 45 years as your grandson to contemplate, still stumps me.
I don't know what my favorite pie is.
You would think I'd have an answer, after the countless, formative hours I've spent standing in your kitchen, walking through your vegetable garden and sitting at your dinner table.
By fogging up, I feel I've not only done you a disservice but I've slighted Norman Rockwell, an entire industry of themed culinary accessories and grammas, grannies, grans and nanas everywhere.
Please know this doesn't reflect my feelings toward you. Quite the contrary, I have a trove of memories behind the belief that any meal or snack you were involved in tasted better for it.
There was the bacon-fat popcorn. In 2015, it's the kind of thing that's on the menu at a brewpub near my house that also serves artisanal cheeses and calamari. In the early 1980s, you made it a staple for our irony-free "Dukes of Hazzard" Friday nights.
I also remember the sausage rings that were the centerpiece of Sunday brunches at your vast, old Victorian back in Crawfordsville, Ind., where seemingly half the congregation could be found after church. I'm vegetarian now, but I'm still hoping you'll make one during our visit.
And then there was all that cake batter. I'd be lying if I said there's a larger point here; I just really like cake batter.
My reverence, however, goes beyond your ability to follow directions on a recipe card.
I now see patience in your constant but gentle efforts decades ago to steer me toward foods that came out of the ground rather than a can or a box.
"They're from the garden," you'd say of tomatoes on my plate. I'm sorry I dismissed these words as a boy, but know that I did eventually come around.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that the sizzles, aromas and morsels have been every bit as meaningful as any hug or laugh we've ever shared.
And I hope all this way-back-when shows that my slack-jawed response to your pie question was a smudge on an otherwise clear picture of a childhood you took great care to celebrate and nourish.
Your grandson, Christopher
P.S. -- You know what, I'm gonna go with apple.
crickett@tribpub.com
Twitter @frthestate
