Family Friends and Food

In the mid 1986 my father’s father suffered a stroke. He had to relearn everything. Two of his sister’s took the task of helping their father regain as much of his ability as he could. By all accounts they did a great job. He was able to regain all his abilities but speech.

Well, that’s not quite accurate. He could say yayayayaya and nonononono. Basically he understood what you were saying. If he agreed or liked it, it was yayayayaya, if not nonononono. His insurance wouldn’t cover a speech therapist. He wasn’t much of a talker anyway and seemed happy.

I don’t remember what event or events lead to another aunt, one of the caretakers’ other sister to take custody of their father. This I know. My two aunts that originally cared for my grandfather didn’t have the best health habits and both LOVED to cook and eat. I do recall something to the effect of that the way they cared for him, he was going to have another stroke.

When I saw my grandfather again, after my other aunt started taking care of him I almost didn’t recognize him. He had lost at least 50 lbs. Along with a drastic change in diet she had him on an exercise regime that included long early morning and late afternoon walks.

He didn’t seem unhappy, but he didn’t seem as happy as when he ate and drank as he pleased. One day, for some reason, all the adults left me and grandpa alone one afternoon. A moment of genius struck. I went to the refrigerator, made the mother of all submarine sandwiches, quartered it so it was manageable, put it on a plate, and sat it on the table in the kitchen where my grandpa was, grabbed the newspaper, and told him I would be back in about an hour.

I remember how wide his eyes were as I walked away. Not sure when he really understood what just happened. I sat in another room and read through most of the newspaper. After about an hour I returned to the kitchen. There sat my grandpa, looking several pounds heavier, cat that ate the canary smile, tooth pick in hand and working it. A twinkle in his eye, a slight nod, and an under the breath hehehe told me mission accomplished.

Food. There’s going to be a lot of it in lots of homes these next few days. In my families homes, always.

I recall beginning that last trip to Texas my father, another sister who lives in California, and myself were greeted at 9pm (I drove straight through, only potty stops) with tamales, enchiladas, AND menudo. Only one of those would have been more than sufficient.

A few years back at the end of the school year a teacher invited staff over to his house for a BBQ. The invite said to bring meat for yourself and some to share. I brought 15 lbs. of tri-tip. Everyone else brought hot dogs and or hamburgers.

Get it done and get it done right 😀

Back in the day when I had friends 🙂 Every weekend the guys would pile up at my house and I’d cook something fabulous, in a manfood kind of way, and I even remember the occasional comment about making someone a great wife one day. Although that comment might be considered offensive to some women, I never took offense

The friend I spoke of at the end of the last blog, there is nothing more that I enjoy than her sitting on her couch sipping wine while I prepare a meal for her. I even have the next meal planned. It will involve lamb, curry, rice, coconut, arugula, a pie from Marie Calendar’s, wine, and of course great company and conversation 🙂

Several Christmases ago, I made tray after tray after tray of enchiladas, sauce from scratch of course. Each tray had either 12 to 15, depending on what I stuffed them with. I gave them to family and friends. The uncle who died of cancer was a vegetarian. For him I stuff the enchiladas with shredded carrots, spinach, sauteed mushrooms, and julienned yellow squash. For years, his wife would ask when I was going to make and bring more of those enchiladas over.

*sigh* The title of my last blog is ringing in my head.

I do love to cook. I don’t have or use recipes. Ever since I was allowed to make my own food, I have. I make my own breakfast every single day. On ocassion when I don’t its because I am meeting someone for breakfast.

It amuses me when people they don’t have to time to do something. The correct and prefectly acceptable thing to say would be, that is not a priority to me, therefore I do not make the time to make that happen.

My father learned to be quite the cook! Oh this is a wonderful place to stop.

Tomorrow I shall talk about the amazing transformation of a little peasant girl into a worldly educated woman.

A more positive blog title hopefully gets me more views 😀

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