My Auntie Helen
I talked to my Auntie Helen on the phone the other day. This is always a bit of a treat as we just don’t manage to talk as often as I think either of us would like to. She’s actually my great aunt, and she talks to my mom and grandpa quite a bit so at least they can keep me updated on her goings on.
Auntie Helen is my Grandma’s sister, and she lives two time zones away in the town that they grew up in. I’ve been there several times; and Mom has mentioned before that even though she never lived there, it’s still what she thinks of as her “home town.” Auntie Helen has three granddaughters and seven great grandchildren of her own all living in the same town. However she’s always filled a role closer to what I refer to as “bonus, long distance grandmother” than great aunt in my life.
It could just be that I’ve never been close to any of my other great aunts, although I have/had several. But in fact in many ways I’m closer to Auntie Helen than I am to my non-great aunts. Hubby and I just had our one year wedding anniversary. One year isn’t a major milestone that I expect many people to acknowledge. but Auntie Helen did, she and Grandpa were the only people other than our parents to send cards.
Like all important people in my life, it’s her little quirks that make her extra special. Although I send all cards and correspondence addressed to Auntie Helen, I’d be confused if she ever signed on that way. Seriously, I’d be wondering if something was wrong. That’s because she signs everything addressed to myself, my sister and my mother A. Helen HerLastname. Even my wedding guestbook is signed this way.
I asked my mom once why she did it, and what the A stands for. Not all that surprisingly the A is for Auntie. When my mom was little, and Auntie Helen’s husband was alive, she would address letters to A. Helen and U. Les. The reason for this was simple: anything else was too long to fit on one line. Funny how life’s little mysteries, and the fun quirks always seem to lead back to the practical.
Ready, Set, Tidy
My parents are coming to town in about a week. My Mom was here last year when we were just moving in, but hasn’t actually seen our place furnished or fully unpacked. My Dad has never been here. They’re also bringing my sister with them, but she’s been here lots, as she goes to the same University we both work/study at.
Now, Hubby and I aren’t slobs, but that hasn’t stopped me from going a little crazy. I keep making lists of things that need to get done before they come to visit. Hubby’s likely to be super busy next week before they get here, so I want to get things figured out by the weekend.
The actually cleaning jobs aren’t a big deal, we clean anyways, so that just has to get done like regular. But there are a few things that need tidying/organizing before my family gets here. Also, my sister’s mini-fridge is currently serving as a side table in our living room. While I will be very happy to get rid of it, I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing with our wedding album, which is currently sitting on top of it.
I also spend about half an hour today trying to figure out where the heck I can possibly put an air mattress in this apartment. Luckily my parents are only sleeping here one night, because the only possible answer is kitchen floor. And that requires that we move our kitchen table into the living room. Fortunately we have the world’s most awesome kitchen table, which can be turned into a coffee table, and then squished into the living room. Although I don’t think anyone will actually be able to get to/from the couch when the table is there.
I’ve also been changing my mind like a maniac about meals. I’ll have things all planned out, and then I’ll remember that curry isn’t my Mom’s favourite, or some other fact like that.
I’m really excited that my Parent’s are coming. But a little part of me is starting to understand the mini-frenzy that they used to go into back home when grandparents were coming to visit. I probably owe them an apology for all the times I thought they were going overboard. It turns out they weren’t crazy, they were normal (and who ever thinks they’re going to say that about their own parents?).
Nana’s Handbag
After writing about my Grandma the other day, I started thinking about Nana, who we lost just this past spring. I actually feel a bit weird about it, as I didn’t fly home for the funeral. I had just been home, couldn’t afford to go back, and it was perfectly reasonable. But it still feels odd to miss your own Grandmother’s funeral.
I currently have the picture of Nana and myself from just below as my wallpaper on my computer (why yes it is a very old picture, however did you guess?). It was a pretty common scene: Nana, with at least on Grandkid (she had 7) peeking into her handbag,
Me checking out Nana's Handbag
Nana’s handbag was really fascinating for two reasons. This first, most obvious, one was that it always, always, always had candy. She usually referred to them as sweets. But no matter what you called them, chances were good that if Nana was digging in her handbag, you were about to be offered a candy. Judging by the picture above, on that day I had either already been offered one, or had asked.
Her handbag wasn’t the only place with candy. You were also invariable offered one from her little tin if you rode in the car with Nana. The green apple shaped cookie jar was always full, and more often than not, unless it was almost meal time or Mom was right there to stop it, you got a small cookie if you just looked at it for a bit. My Nana liked her sweets
The other reason why Nana’s handbag was so fascinating, at least to me as a little girl, is a bit less obvious. That is, unless you remember what it’s like to be a kid. See, my mom had a purse. It was black leather and had a long shoulder strap (she actually had a series of purses, but I was 8 or 9 at least before I realized this). Other women I knew had purses. Most were black, most had shoulder straps.
So, what made Nana’s handbag so special? It was called a handbag. No one else that I knew carried a handbag, or even any sort of bag that looked like Nana’s. At least not on a regular basis. I’m not sure what exactly I thought it was, but I was fascinated with it because it was different. I very definitely connected the word handbag solely with my Nana for many years. In fact, I’m not quite sure when I figured out that other people could carry a handbag. Even to this day, if I refer to one as a handbag, or someone mentions one, I think of my Nana.
Grandma
One year ago today, my Grandma passed away from leukemia. So obviously, I’ve been thinking about her a fair bit today. It’s funny, but she must have fit the stereotypical image of a Grandma pretty well, because many of my memories of her revolve around food
Grandma teaching me and Sis to make chicken noodle soup
Not that I don’t have lots of other memories too. My Mom is an only child, so my Grandma and Grandpa have just my sister and I for grandkids. I can remember going bowling with the two of them. I know that I learned to knit from my Grandma, but I never really took to knitting that much. I’m more a cross-stitch girl. I do remember playing the Strawberry Shortcake board game with her, and hide and seek in the basement. I remember her really awesome collection of dress up clothes for my sister and I to use.
But when I think about Grandma, it’s the food related memories that jump to mind. Going down to the basement in the morning on Thanksgiving day, Grandma would have a turkey roaster sitting on the table, a loaf of wonderbread, and a big bowl. My job would be to tear up the bread while she did all the other stuffing prep. Then we’d both dig in with our hands. I can also remember helping her make buns, and all kinds of other things.
In fact, every time I make gravy I end up thinking of Grandma. I don’t remember exactly when she decided it was time that I learn to make gravy, but I would guess that I was about 12 or 13. And so it started that every time we were together for a turkey dinner, Grandma and I made the gravy together. At first, I just watched. Then I took control of the spoon, while she added the flour and water in the correct amounts. And finally, in the last few years I had taken over all gravy making at our house, even when Grandma wasn’t there.
I’ve been told that we make gravy the hard way. I take the meat juices, still in the roaster, and add the correct amount of flour directly to them. Once that’s mixed to about the right colour I then add water. Usually I use the water that the vegetable for dinner were cooked in, but if necessary boil some in the kettle. I know that it’s apparently easier to mix the flour and water first,. But honestly, I’ve tried that because I need to do it when making pot roast gravy (water already mixed with juices so I can’t add the flour straight) and I find it so much harder to get it lump free. So I stick to my way. It’s easy for me, and frankly, although I know I’m biased, I think it makes better gravy.
Hubby wasn’t feeling well today, so I made soup for dinner. But I’m kind of wishing I had roasted a chicken, so that I could have made gravy just the way my Grandma showed me.
