It's a rainy Sunday afternoon. My grandparents invited my family over for lunch. We gladly accepted, lunch with the grandparents is always nice, and it's been a while since we've seen them. It's best to not let this visits get so sparse, time is finite. They greet us at the door, my Grandpa is in a collared white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His skin is wrinkled and cold and dark, but his eyes still have spark, and his laugh is as alive as ever. He grabs my face with both hands and gently kisses my cheek. "My have you grown!" he says, as he kisses my sister. "You have not," he says to me with a chuckle. I may be done growing, but I'm still growing up. My Grandma is wearing a pretty coral apron. She comes out from the kitchen with a pleasant smile and greets us all with warm hugs and kisses. "Just throw your coats on the bed!" she says, flailing an arm towards the bedroom as she returns to the kitchen. This scene is predictable now. The greeting is always almost exactly the same. It doesn't get old though. It's comfortably repetitive.
We joked as we walked down the hallway to their apartment door about what my Grandma would make for lunch. Without hesitation, we all said, "egg noodles." Apparently she made egg noodles a lot when my Dad was a kid because every time we eat them, he says, "these remind me so much of my Mom." Egg noodles are looked down upon by the Italian side of my family, they're just not the real things. I hear glass dishes clanging in the kitchen and smell the meal she is cooking. "I left a note on the oven saying 'Turn off the oven at 1:00' in case you folks beat us to the apartment" she says. "It's almost ready. I'm just letting the meat rest."
"What kind of meat is it?" I ask.
"Well, I'll show you." She lifts up the tin foil and reveals a big piece of meat on a bone. "It's a little fatty, but it should be delicious." The smile never leaves her face, her muscles have practically memorized it.
On the counter is a baked pie. Always pie at Grandma's, never cake. Pie is a 'grandma' food though, isn't it? It looks delicious. My sweet tooth is stronger than my appetite, and I silently wish that I could eat the dessert first.
I walk out into the living room now, where the rest of my family and my Grandpa are sitting. They have this faded, floral carpet that has been there forever. I can imagine the texture of it perfectly, it's ingrained in my mind. I think I even learned to walk on that carpet, holding onto the the same, dark wood coffee table that sits there now. The wallpaper is pink floral, and there is pink glass vases and bowls dispersed around the room. Everything is dust free and strategically placed. There are porcelain swans and tarnished metal bells on all the table spaces, don't ask me why. In a plain class dish are only about 7 chocolate kisses, from Christmas. I take one, I'm starving. My Grandma has a very old electric organ tucked away in a corner. The bench to sit in front of it is covered in books. My Grandpa remarks, "You can tell we're readers, can't you!" with a laugh. I can't help but play the piano. Pianos are like magnets to my fingers. I can't even play well, my sight reading is so slow, but the process of figuring it out: counting up spaces and lines to find the notes in the bass clef, pounding out wrong notes and recounting, is so worth the satisfaction my ears get when my fingers find the right spots to expel harmonious sounds. I try, ungracefully, to play the songs from a hymnal in front of the organ. They recognize the songs once in a while. My Grandma sticks her head out from the kitchen and says, "You know, I learned that song in France. When I hear it now, I only hear the words in French, I can hardly remember it in English." She walks back to the kitchen singing the French lyrics, in her groggy, grumbly yet beautiful singing voice. The line of heredity from my Grandma to my Dad to me is so strong. Our interests fall practically parallel to each other. She's a lovely lady.
Lunch is ready. We sit down to a crowded table of pink plates, lap napkins (my least favourite kind, just get me those papers ones eh) and padded, forest green and laced place mats. My grandparents are at opposing heads of the table. The food is steaming hot. It is nothing intense, no garlic or spice. Everything about it is subdued, plain. There are steamed and buttered carrots, similarly cooked beets, homemade scones, salad and potatoes and meat. Such a classic Sunday lunch. We all wait silently for my Grandma to sit down, which she eventually does with a slump. My Grandpa says a reverent prayer, full of Thees and Thous. I've always been bothered by his old school language when he spoke to God. God understands all languages, and the messages come from your heart rather than your words, and I didn't see the reason for speaking so spiffily, in a way he would not otherwise speak. But I understood it this time. It is a respect thing, a way which he doesn't address any other person. It is the way he learned to pray, and as their relationship has been sustained, so has his communication with Him remained constant. It's kind of beautiful actually. With the closure of a confident "Amen," and the affirmation of it with our repeated, "Amen," we begin. Dishes clang. "Pass it to your right," says my Grandpa. "Be careful, it's hot," says my Grandma. "It all looks so good," my Mother adds. "I'll take the butter, when you get a second," Dad.
My sister and I aren't really the loud type. We'd rather not make a forced compliment to the chef, or make small talk just for the sake of making small talk. We are not adults, and so we pass on that expected responsibility of conversation continuing. We are just there, to be addressed. I don't think we even have much to say towards the topics of my grandparents' lunch table anyways. That's not such a bad thing, that's just life. From across the table though, we speak to each other, through our eyes. We read each other quite accurately. I dropped a piece of lettuce on the floor (I'm not the neatest eater) and I place it nonchalantly beside my plate, on the padded place mat. She looks at me, then at the lettuce, eye brows furrowed in question. "I dropped it," I motion. Her eye brows melt into an expression of humored embarrassment. The conversation is not lively. There isn't much to say, really. There are silent pauses where no one speaks. I wonder if any one else is aware of the pressure to bring up a new subject to talk about, so I raise my eyes and look around the table. My sister stares directly back at me, matching my expression. Surely we both sense the awkwardness of this situation. Small smirks creep across our faces. This happens a handful of times throughout the meal. More than necessary, the comment "This is all so delicious," is made. If it's made by my Father, my Mother will chime in immediately after with a supportive "Mhmm!"
This is how the conversation goes for the rest of the meal. Quiet, sparse, basic.
My Mom helps clear the table for dessert. Although my Grandpa is not yet finished eating. He's never finished eating. Without fail, he is the last one to finish his meal, every time. He claims to chew each, small bite 27 times, as is habit. It's virtually ridiculous, but maybe this helps him stay so healthy. Even with his diabetes, he is more healthy than almost all the 80 year olds I know. His diabetes doesn't allow him to eat much sugar, so the dessert is often sugar free or full of sugar supplements. The rhubarb and strawberry pie that is presented is sending off streams of steam. Finally, my sweet tooth can indulge. Even the ice cream is a a low fat, sugar free treat. Every thing about this meal is somehow short of the intensity I'm used to: the pace, the richness of flavor, the conversation. Somehow though, and my whole family would agree, that there is something really pleasant about sharing in their lifestyle, even for just a lunch. I intend to visit them, in that pink floral apartment again sooner than later.
