The Tap On The Head

My paternal grandmother has a long history of shakily snatching bits of food across the table and hoarding them on the edge of her plate like jewels, and then forgetting to put the cloth napkin on the table before she wheels away. But we love her, and she's just so sweet, and she always pays, so we end up dining together several times a month. Another habit: She finds the most delectable things to be the ones that have experienced the least exposure to sunshine and happiness, internal organs piled high in Italian pottery. We've seen it all come out from behind the black and white kitchen curtain, from oozing tripe dotted with dainty mushrooms to steaming elk smothered in a heavy sauce the color of the bottoms of my feet. Not tonight. Not tonight. It was not going to happen tonight without a fight.

The date itself posed some significant challenges to our shtick: It was a Monday, a holiday, and fifteen minutes before departure, so almost every reservation had been shuttered away and tending to the fire for days. We scrolled through dozens of Yelp entries, flipped past hundreds of Zagat blurbs, and skimmed the sleek website of the local slice pizzeria my grandma had suggested. (It had taken me long enough to get my mascara to work that I shot my mom a simmering warning shake of my head.) Eventually, we unearthed a local pasta treasure a couple seconds away, so we stuffed our heads inside our car, and held our noses in combat with the paint odor until we reached the door.

Unfortunately, my grandmother got stuck on the end of the conversation with nothing but her tap water and a dirty bowl of marinara sauce for company. I blissfully reconnected with my cousin, discussing everything from crazy science teachers to puppy photography to her recent life-threatening accident that removed her sense of smell, until I felt a small tap on my shoulder, near the base of my aching neck. I turned to Grandma, who had donned all black with a glowing garnet pendant as an accent piece and still looked colorful. She clutched my elbow intently and through her blinking eyes in the dim light, she smiled at me. It was then that I remembered just why we live so close to her, visit her all the time, never miss a birthday or holiday without dropping an oddly timed line. "Hi, Grandma," I smiled past the spaghetti. And I missed Great Grandma with what space was left in my stomach, and with all of my soul.