A short tribute to my grandmother

 more beautiful in real life

There’s a lot of enticing British food in Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson, which I’ve been listening to in the car. So far: Jam roly poly, trifle, Yorkshire pudding, roast beef, and homemade Madeira cake, pronounced Madeera cake by the narrator. 

Because Madeira is an exotic island and produces a rich, dark wine, when I hear “Madeira cake” I envision something exotic, rich, and dark. I've known for some time that Madeira cake is none of the above. Madeira cake is a plain, pale loaf cake that acquired its name after someone decided it was a nice accompaniment to Madeira wine. Essentially, it’s poundcake. And yet it still has this mysterious allure for me on account of the name. When will I learn?

After my copy of the River Cottage Cakes Handbook arrived the other day, I was flipping through its handsome, matte pages and decided to make the Madeira cake, thanks to Major Pettigrew. I whipped it up in a matter of minutes and popped it in the oven. Some time later, a petite yellow brick emerged that I blanketed in a lemon icing as glossy and white as Elmer’s glue. Very easy cake. Only moderately tasty. We ate about half of it and then I took a few dryish slices down to my grandmother on Sunday. She deserved better.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love my grandmother? Oh, I love my grandmother. She’s the most constant person I’ve ever known. If she loves you, she loves you forever, without conditions, you’re in, and when I was a child, no one made me feel more secure. Everyone in our family has cursed her stubbornness at some time or another (just ask my poor aunt about trying to persuade her to take her pills), but everyone knows they can count on her. I don't think you can be steadfast without also being stubborn.

I would add that my grandmother is what used to be called “a character,” though she probably wouldn’t take this as a compliment. She loves convention and certainly doesn’t try to be eccentric. She just is. In the days of manual car locks, she used to drive around with a long stick on the dashboard that she’d wrapped with a pretty textured ribbon (everything has to be pretty) so it wouldn’t slide back and forth. While she was perfectly able to lean over and unlock the passenger door by hand, she preferred to wield her wand from a dignified upright position, unlocking the door with its tip. Watching her do this was delightful. She was quite an engineer. Her house was always full of strange, ingenious little contraptions and gizmos that allowed her to avoid ever having to call (or, heaven forbid, pay) a handyman. Out in the world, she was a tiny, sweet, very proper lady. At home, a caution.

On Sunday she was full of energy, but still in her robe when I arrived at her house. She said she’d get dressed and we could go out “to luncheon.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. It takes her about 30 minutes just to put on shoes.

“Absolutely!” 

Then she insisted I leave her alone in her room so she could change out of her robe, which she had accessorized this morning with a red cotton sash. She has always been a snappy dresser, and wearing lipstick and “fixing oneself” is part of her ethos. Now that she sometimes spends her days in a robe, she accessorizes those robes. Scarves, earrings, pins, sunglasses.

This photo from about a year ago gives the flavor:

also more beautiful in real life

I wandered around the living room, looking at my late grandfather’s books and the shrine to my mother on the table across from where my grandmother customarily sits. The shrine consists of a 1950s studio portrait and a fresh bouquet, the flowers regularly replaced by my aunt. I don’t know how people survive the death of a child and my grandmother’s grief was painful to behold. I thought her spirit had finally broken. But then after a year or so she rebounded. Stubborn. 

About twenty minutes after she’d gone to dress, she made her way back down the hall, still in her robe. She said, “Jennifer! I feel awful! It is terrible that you came down here and I am such bad company. We might have to call the hospital. Why do I feel so awful? I really feel awful.” On and on she fretted.

I suggested she sit down, offered to make tea. 

She said, “Which do you think will make me feel better, tea or rum?”

Ah. That was easy. I found a miniature bottle of Ron Botran and poured two teaspoons into a tiny glass (she loves tiny things) with a chip of ice. She sipped the rum while nibbling at the mediocre Madeira cake, musing about who in the family should take which pieces of furniture when she dies.  

pretty accurate representation

Then, a few minutes after she started sipping the rum, all talk of bequests and hospital ceased. She started reminiscing about her mother’s vol au vents.  I don’t recall ever hearing of her mother’s vol au vents before, and wasn’t even sure what vol au vents were. Like cream puffs? I asked. No, she replied, they’re like croissants. Her mother used to instruct “the maids” in the preparation of the loveliest vol au vents with layers and layers of butter rolled into the dough. Then “the maids” would cut the dough into little containers, bake them, and fill them, though with what my grandmother could not recall. 

“The maids” are a recurring motif in stories of her Guatemalan childhood. She seems to have been raised by Indian maids and speaks of them as of angels. The world of her youth has always been a complete mystery to me. I can not picture it at all.

Once we’d exhausted vol au vents, she started telling me about the wonderful trips she took to India and Africa back in the day. This was an interesting turn in the conversation because my grandmother has never been to India or Africa. She was so dreamy and happy, though, that I just nodded and agreed. Of all the things one might “remember” after two teaspoons of rum at age 102, you could do a lot worse than wonderful trips to India and Africa.

When I left, she insisted, as always, on getting up and walking me to the door. And, as always, I begged her not to because I worry she’ll fall the minute I’m gone. She ignored me. This is our routine, as is her request that I call her as soon as I get home to let her know I’ve arrived safely. She never closes the door until I’m out of sight and reminds me two or three times as I walk up the stairs that I must call. I smile because it’s funny, but I have to confess that it also makes me feel safe and loved, like I’m still someone’s treasured child. This isn’t something to be taken for granted at any age, least of all mine. 

Next visit, I’m bringing vol au vents, though I do wonder if her mother ever actually made them.