Food I Associate with My Late Grandparents

By Jill Desmarais

Both Granddad and Nana died in the fewer days of spring, eleven years apart. 

Granddad is my mother’s stepfather. My memories of Granddad and I exist in home movies and objects. If he were still alive, I imagine we would cry and laugh over our favourite novels we loved. We would go cafe-hopping and make up background stories for every person that walked past. He would revise my writing in my teen years. I know he would say, ‘I am so proud of you’. I would grin and sob and embrace him with nothing but love.

His memorial service was filled with people he knew from the past, people he knew for decades. Celebrating Granddad’s life, I explored the buffet of hors d'oeuvres to find table crackers with smoked salmon on top. I remember eating the majority of these. I would pluck the salmon off, gobble it up, and toss the cracker in the trash.

I remember Sunday suppers at Granddad and Babcia’s place like nothing else. I remember the flaming cheese Babcia would prepare, and she would yell ‘OPA!’ every time. I can almost picture Granddad’s laugh when she would put out the fire right away because she was worried about a house fire. I remember the Greek pastitsio and how I had a back-and-forth relationship with the dish. I remember the Easter Sunday buffets prepared with care every year, including deviled eggs and dill pickles. I remember the Christmas Eve dinners filled with pierogi and sauerkraut, my mouth watering in the hours leading up to the special supper. 

Nana is my father’s mother. I still think of Nana as a soft and gentle woman. I can still hear her saying ‘Bye, love’ whenever we parted ways. I can still feel her small hand on mine while we sat on her sofa waiting for Christmas Day dinner to be ready. I remember the dogs she owned and loved deeply. I remember The Price is Right and Let’s Make a Deal glowing on her television. I remember her stories about winning big at the casino. I can almost imagine her smile when the slot machine lit up in her favour. 

Nana was an impeccable conversationalist. She could talk about the weather and make it sound intriguing. She could talk about politics and give me perspective. She could talk about news in our city and manage not to bore me. Nana prided herself in her great memory, making for the best stories. No matter how little or big a story, she never failed to keep me entranced. 

Every Christmas Eve, Nana and my great aunt Bee would come over to our house for a lunch spread. Deli meats, special cheeses, and Nana’s crab salad that tastes like love. Christmas Day dinner was always classic but still special. A huge turkey, with the stuffing and mashed potatoes all present at the table. There was nothing more comforting in the world than eating a traditional dinner with Nana on a holiday she loved. 

For dessert, she made the most unique dish called ‘sin pie’. A layered dessert including cool whip, chocolate pudding, custard and a most delightful crust. In all honesty, I used to dislike sin pie. I did not like how sweet it was. After she passed, I took a great liking to sin pie. In fact, I love it and will most likely ask Bee to make it more. My brother Simon even requests sin pie to replace a normal cake on his birthday. 

On days I was ill and stayed home from school with Nana, she would fix me white toast with butter for breakfast, Lipton’s chicken noodle soup for lunch, and Mars candy bars for a snack, along with a kind of pop called ‘Chubby’ that I cannot seem to find at any store years later.

Whenever I eat smoked salmon, I think of Granddad and his smile. And the holidays that I eat sin pie, I remember Nana’s comforting and loving presence. 

Memories of those who are dead do not have to be painful. They can simply be pleasant, and tasteful.