My Grandmother's Table

05/24/2024

AN UNASSUMING BRILLIANCE

Aunt Matilda – with her perfectly coiffed blonde hair, trendy designer clothes, and air of superiority – had always thought my Grandmother was illiterate. Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one who held this belief. After all, my Grandmother had been forced by her elder siblings to drop out of school in the third grade to cook and clean for them when their parents passed away. From that one detail, people's assumptions grew like wildflowers in an untended garden, spreading and multiplying without any real evidence to support them.

However, my grandmother remained unfazed by the opinions of others. Some whispered that she lacked the ability to read, while others simply assumed she could barely add and subtract, let alone multiply and divide. But I knew better – her fingers danced confidently over the pages of a book and her mind effortlessly cut complex issues around politics, economics and social injustices down to their respective cores. She defied their narrow-minded expectations and proved them all wrong repeatedly.

Still, on more than a few occasions, Aunt Matilda and others would pull me aside to state their opinion, yet again and to seek corroborating evidence from me!

“You see her almost more than anyone else, Joey! You don’t have to pretend. You have to see that she can’t read!” declared Aunt Matilda recurrently and, at times, spasmodically! Yes, I had much to give in terms of evidence – but not the kind they sought.

You see, my grandmother's kitchen was a sanctuary filled with the sights and sounds of her culinary mastery. I spent countless hours by her side, learning how to craft Italian Sunday Sauce, Polish Pierogies, Algonquin Three Sisters Stew, and Nigerian Joloff Rice. Her hands moved with grace and precision, each dish she created a symphony of flavor and love. And yet, she had never received any formal education in cooking. It was simply a gift that flowed through her veins. Indeed, her cooking went beyond mere recipes; it was a connection to the cultures of those who came to her table and a source of their comfort and joy.

Still, our relationship was not one-sided. I also had my own set of skills to offer. I showed Nanny how to balance her checkbook and manage her finances, tasks she quickly picked up despite what others may have assumed about my grandmother. Our bond was like a symbiotic dance of learning and teaching, each of us bringing something valuable to the table. Through her teachings, I learned more than just cooking techniques. My grandmother instilled in me values of courtesy and kindness that couldn't be measured by academic achievement alone. And in turn, I shared my knowledge of using whole and natural remedies to lower blood pressure, decrease inflammation and promote wellbeing, a testament to the depth of our bond and the exchange of wisdom between generations.

One day long ago, as I walked through the back door after high school, the aroma of a freshly spritzed floral bouquet accosted my nose, a scent not often swirling around the kitchen. I found my grandmother sitting in her usual spot at the table, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose as if reading small print. A few more steps in her direction and it was clear that Nanny had dozed off. A book lay open on her lap, its pages turned upside down. Suddenly, Aunt Matilda burst into the room, her fur coat swishing behind her. She grabbed my arm and pulled me aside once again, whispering loud enough for pedestrians on the street to hear how my grandmother couldn't even read a simple story, pointing at the upside-down book as evidence. My cheeks burned with disbelief as Aunt Matilda flounced out of the house, leaving behind the smell of her signature ode de perfume and an eagerness to spread this new tidbit of information to anyone who would listen.

Nanny seemingly slept through the whirling words of Aunt Matilda. Or did she?! Upon closer examination, however, my grandmother could no longer act as if on a Broadway stage! She giggled, winked and spoke with a mischievous twinkle.

“Matilda should know better! Why would I care about someone else's opinion of me?” Nanny asked, opening her book. “I've got more important things to do.”

Nanny began to read aloud from “The Velveteen Rabbit,” her voice warm and textured. “By the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints . . . but these things don't matter, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.” Wow! You can’t be ugly – except to people who don’t understand.

Her voice grew softer and more tender with every word, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and comfort wash over me. With each passing sentence, it became clear that my grandmother didn't care what anyone else thought about her – she was real, and nothing could or would change that. And in that moment, I realized that her opinion of herself was the only one that truly mattered.

My grandmother wasn’t just literate; she was wise in ways that far surpassed the confines of a traditional education. She understood that being Real – being genuine, kind, and true to oneself – was what truly mattered. Her wisdom was a tapestry woven from life’s experiences, not from textbooks or classrooms or the opinions of others.

That day, I learned a valuable lesson: the opinions of others do not define us. I also learned throughout my life that that such a lesson must become a daily practice. Otherwise, we live according to the whims and fancies of others which can only take us away from why we’re really here. My grandmother’s confidence in her own worth – her self-love – and her refusal to be judged by anyone’s standards but her own was a testament to her strength. She showed me that real literacy isn't just about reading words on a page; it's about understanding and living the deeper truths of life.

It was in these moments, moments amidst the gentle clatter of pots and the comforting hum of the kitchen, that I realized the profound truth she had always lived by: true wisdom comes from the heart, not from the pages of a book. The knowledge Nanny and I exchanged was not confined to recipes or checkbooks, but encompassed the essence of life itself –love, resilience, and the courage to be oneself. And so, with each shared lesson and every delicious bite, our tradition of learning and growing together continued, a testament to the enduring power of her quiet, unassuming brilliance. Her light still shines to this day at My Grandmother’s Table.

CHEF JOE

My Grandmother's Table
115 Bridge Street
Charlevoix, MI 49720
231-437-3132

05/17/2024

05/12/2024

HAPPY (GRAND)MOTHER’S DAY!

As I sit and reflect on this Mother's Day, my mind drifts back to my grandmother's kitchen. It was a place of warmth and comfort, filled with the tantalizing smells of dishes from around the world. But there was one item in that kitchen that held a special significance – her cutting board. Made of simple Maple, it was a cherished symbol of Nanny's culinary legacy and her selfless desire to serve others. Over the years, that humble piece of wood bore witness to countless celebrations and gatherings, its surface marked by scars from the precise and careful preparation of meals. Each slice and dice on its surface was a testament to Nanny's artistry in the kitchen, and each mark told a story of heartfelt connection between loved ones gathered around her table.

The day of Uncle Ottoviano's wedding was a whirlwind of excitement and anticipation in the kitchen. Nanny, with her trusty cutting board by her side, worked her magic with humble ingredients and transformed them into a symphonic fusion of Italian and German flavors. The sharp, pungent aroma of garlic lingered in the air as she deftly chopped fresh herbs, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the well-worn wooden surface filling the room like a soothing melody. The board itself seemed to come alive under her skilled hands, infused with cherished memories from past gatherings. As she created pasta and spaetzle, meatballs and schnitzel, and finished it all off with mouthwatering tiramisu and apfelkuchen, it was as if each dish held its own story to tell.

And then there was the somber occasion of Mr. Nakamura's wake. The air was heavy with grief and remembrance as Nanny's kitchen transformed into a sanctuary of solace. The soft clinking of utensils and the cadenced chopping of vegetables filled the room, creating a sense of calm amidst the sorrow. With reverence and love, Nanny crafted an array of Asian delicacies, each dish paying tribute to a life well-lived. Smooth slices of sashimi glistened on delicate plates while fragrant bowls of miso soup simmered on the stovetop. And as she wove her way through the kitchen with grace and dignity, her movements reflected her unwavering compassion and empathy for those mourning Mr. Nakamura's passing.

Of all my childhood memories, it was my First Holy Communion that left the deepest imprint on me. The air was filled with a sense of reverence and joy as people from all walks of life gathered to celebrate this noteworthy occasion. And just like many other special events, Nanny's loving touch brought everyone together in unity. She created a feast that transcended cultural boundaries, showcasing a myriad of flavors and dishes that represented the diverse backgrounds and traditions of those present. From the savory and comforting Polish stuffed cabbage to the rich and fragrant Indian curries, from the spicy and earthy African stews to the delicate and delectable Chinese dumplings – each dish emerged from Nanny's cutting board, each serving as a symbol of acceptance and harmony amongst us all.

As I grew older, I often found myself drawn to Nanny's kitchen, eager to learn the secrets of her culinary prowess. With patience and love, she taught me the art of cooking, instilling in me a deep appreciation for food and family. And as we stood side by side, chopping and slicing with precision, I couldn't help but feel a sense of connection, a bond that transcended generations.

In her final days, as Nanny grew weary and her movements slowed, the cutting board remained a constant presence—a silent companion in her journey. Crafted by my own hands at the tender age of 11, it was a gift of love presented to her on a sunny Mother's Day long ago, a token of gratitude for all the delicious meals and cherished memories she had bestowed upon me.

Years later, as I stood by her side, offering whatever comfort I could, I realized that the true essence of Nanny's kitchen lay not in the dishes she prepared, but in the love and memories she shared with those she held dear, including strangers on the street. For Nanny's cutting board was more than just a piece of wood; it was a cherished artifact steeped in the rich tapestry of her life's journey. It wasn’t just a tool of the trade but a relic of her culinary mastery, a tangible reminder of her unwavering commitment to nourishing both body and spirit. And with each slice and chop, it was as if she poured her heart and soul into every dish, infusing them with a warmth and flavor that could only come from someone who discovered their gifts and who, throughout her lifetime, shared them with her world.

Happy Mother’s Day, Nanny! You, and your cutting board, will forever live in my heart.

CHEF JOE

My Grandmother’s Table
115 Bridge Street
Charlevoix, MI 49720
231-437-3132

05/04/2024

ENCHANTING FAIRY GRANDMOTHER SEEKS ROMANTIC CONNECTION!

About Me: Greetings, dear seekers of whimsy and wonder! I am Birdie Belle, a Fairy Grandmother Extraordinaire, with a penchant for sprinkling joy, laughter, and a dash of magic wherever I go.

Imagine a woman of a certain vintage, whose every step carries the grace of a bygone era and the irrepressible spirit of youth. That’s me!!! My hair, a magnificent halo of silver curls, frames a face adorned with laughter lines and twinkling eyes that sparkle like diamonds in the sun. Any frizz you might detect simply adds personality!

I move with a certain whimsical elegance, my gestures imbued with a touch of theatrical flair and a hint of mischief. My voice, a melodic symphony of warmth and wisdom, fills the air with tales of yesteryear and dreams of tomorrow.

My wardrobe is a riot of color and texture, each ensemble a masterpiece of bold prints and extravagant accessories that stop Halston, Gucci & Fiorucci dead in their tracks! I wear my eccentricity like a badge of honor, embracing the uniqueness of my being with unabashed enthusiasm and muted ego.

But beneath my vivacious exterior lies a heart of gold, generous and compassionate to a fault. I am a beacon of light in a world sometimes shrouded in darkness, offering solace and support to all who cross my path.

Now don’t be fooled, I am a force to be reckoned with, a whirlwind of energy and passion that sweeps through life with boundless enthusiasm. And though the years may have passed, my spirit remains forever young, a testament to the timeless power of joy, laughter and a diet high in fiber.

In closing, one finds within me a rare blend of endearing charm and flamboyant wit – a woman who defies convention and embraces life with open arms, leaving a trail of laughter and love in my wake.

About You: You like me! You adore me! You find me intoxi – Well, enough about me!

Are you someone who revels in the enchantment of life, with a heart as light as a fairy's wing and a spirit as bright as a twinkling star? Do you appreciate a good laugh, even when it comes at the expense of others? -- I mean even if it comes with a sprinkle of fairy dust and a touch of whimsy? If so, you might just be the kindred soul I've been fluttering about in search of!

Interests: When I'm not busy granting wishes or concocting magical potions, you can find me flitting about in my garden of laughter, tending to my blooms of comedy and cultivating friendships with the creatures of the enchanted forest. I have an insatiable curiosity for the mysteries of the universe, for example, 1) When Cheese has its photo taken, what does it say? 2) Why do humans park in the driveway and drive on the parkway? and 3) If corn oil is made from corn and olive oil from olives, where, dare I ask, does baby oil come from? Additionally, I harbor a fondness for tea parties with talking animals – a habit I picked up from my days in Wonderland!

Miscellaneous: Ah, but I mustn't forget to mention that I also serve as the chef at “My Grandmother's Table,” a quaint restaurant nestled in the enraptured town of Charlevoix, where wishes do come true with every bite! Here, amidst the aroma of magical spices and the twinkling of fairy lights, I conjure culinary delights that tantalize the taste buds and warm the soul.

Ideal Date: Cue music! Picture this: a moonlit stroll through a meadow of fireflies, serenaded by the melodies of a woodland orchestra. We'd share tales of our adventures, sprinkle laughter like confetti, and maybe even indulge in a spot of impromptu spellcasting – because why should love be anything less than magical?

Closing Thoughts: If you're a kindred spirit who believes in the power of laughter, the magic of friendship, and the beauty of embracing one's inner majesty, then I implore you to take a leap of faith and join me on a journey through the realms of utter bliss. Together, we'll create a love story that's truly out of this world – or should I say, out of this realm?

So, dear seeker of magic, if you're ready to embark on an adventure of a lifetime (at least this one!), filled with laughter, love, and a touch of fairy tale romance, then don't hesitate to send me a message. Who knows what beguiling adventures await us in the land of Happily Ever After!

^^^
ONE WEEK LATER

With uncontainable excitement bubbling in her voice, Birdie Belle flew into the cozy confines of “My Grandmother's Table,” her wings aflutter with anticipation. “Oh, my dear friends!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling like stars in the night sky. “I simply must share the most enchanting news with you all!”

The patrons of the restaurant turned their attention to the effervescent fairy grandmother, their curiosity piqued by her radiant demeanor. With a graceful flourish, Birdie Belle began to paint a portrait of her newfound paramour with all the fervor of William Shakespeare weaving the tale of Romeo & Juliet.

“Oh, my dear friends,” she began, her voice filled with reverence, “imagine a being whose very essence embodies the majesty of nature itself. His skin, akin to the bark of a grand oak tree, tells the story of centuries past, of roots that run deep and a spirit that reaches for the heavens.”

“He springs forth from the earth with a vigor that is both awe-inspiring and humbling,” Birdie Belle continued, her words carrying the weight of reverence. “His destiny, deeply rooted in the soil of life, is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the beauty of growth and renewal. And if eyes are, indeed, windows to the soul, he’s a man of many windows!”

As she spoke, a hush fell over the room, the patrons of “My Grandmother's Table” enraptured by Birdie Belle's tale of mystery and magic. For in her words, they found a glimpse of something wondrous – a love that transcended the bounds of the ordinary and soared to the heights of the extraordinary.

“But it is his soft, pillowy interior that truly captivates the hearts of those who dare to venture close,” she whispered, her voice filled with a sense of wonder. “It beckons to them with promises of comfort and nourishment, drawing them near like bees to honey.”

“And oh, how they flock to him, drawn by the allure of his presence,” Birdie Belle exclaimed, her voice ringing with delight. “For they believe him to be a little bit of heaven here on earth, a divine gift bestowed upon mortals to remind them of the beauty and bounty that surrounds them.”

“And his name, living lovingly on my luxurious lips, dare I say it aloud? Oh, yes! His name,” Birdie Belle continued, “is none other than Drum Roll, Please: MR. POTATO HEAD!”

A collective gasp swept through the restaurant, followed by a cacophony of escalating murmurs and curious glances exchanged between the patrons. Richard, the Accountant, and Jamie, his wife, nearly choked on their Thai Sticky Orange Peanut Chicken! Sarah and Sarah of the Charlevoix Chamber simultaneously snorted their Long Island Iced Teas upon their mutual attempts to stifle their guffaws! And Harold, the UPS driver, saving the day once again by passing out individual packets of smelling salts to patrons in need! But Birdie Belle remained undeterred, her gaze ablaze with the fervor of newfound love.

“Oh, but he's not just any Mr. Potato Head,” she proclaimed, her tone laced with zeal-dripping admiration. “He's a dream boat, a vision of culinary delight! His eyes sparkle with the promise of mashed potato magic, and his smile – oh, his smile could melt even the coldest of hearts!”

As the patrons of “My Grandmother's Table” calmed themselves into bemused glances and stifled giggles, Birdie Belle continued to regale them with tales of her dashing spud suitor, her enthusiasm undimmed by the lighthearted jests and gentle ribbing of her audience.

For in the heart of Birdie Belle, love knew no bounds – not even when it came in the form of a potato. And as she gazed wistfully into the distance, her heart palpitating with the promise of newfound romance, she couldn't help but feel that perhaps, just perhaps, that in the kitchen and in life, love truly remains the most magical ingredient of all.

Signed,
ANONYMOUS!

My Grandmother’s Table
115 Bridge Street
Charlevoix, MI 49720
231-437-3132

04/26/2024

ISN'T LIFE GRAND?

I remember that Saturday morning at the VFW hall like it was yesterday. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of last evening’s beer-swilling activities as the sound of excited children filled the room. We were breathlessly and eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus. I was seven years old, my heart pounding with joy as I stood in line.

Finally Santa arrived and it was my chance. I climbed onto his lap, the red velvet feeling plush beneath me. But as I settled in, something caught my eye – the glint of bobby pins securing Santa's long, white beard.

“Wait a minute, Santa Claus!” I thought. “Why bobby pins?!”

My confusion must have shown on my face because I couldn't shake the thought from my mind. Bobby pins!? Those were the same ones my Nanny used to make curls in her hair. Santa was supposed to be magical, not someone wearing bobby pins and a fake beard!

Despite Santa's jolly demeanor and his booming “Ho-ho-ho,” I couldn't shake the feeling of doubt. “Wait,” I blurted out, unable to contain my disbelief. “Are you really Santa Claus?”

Santa chuckled, but his laughter didn't ease my uncertainty. “Of course, I am, young man! Ho-ho-ho!”

“Uh-huh,” I thought. “I not convinced.”

In that moment, everything I believed in seemed to crumble before my eyes. If Santa wasn't real, then what about the Tooth Fairy? And the Easter Bunny? As the truth dawned on me, I felt like the ground had been pulled from beneath my feet. Santa tried to reassure me, talking about the spirit of Christmas and the joy of giving, but it was hard to hear his words over the roar of doubt in my mind.

As I jumped down from Santa's lap, I couldn't shake the heaviness in my heart. The magic of childhood seemed to slip through my fingers, leaving behind a world filled with question marks – and a bunch of them at that, growing exponentially .

As I arrived home, my mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I didn't want Nanny and PapPap to see the turmoil brewing within me, the shattered illusions that now weighed heavily on my heart. So, without a word to anyone, I made a beeline for the old tree in our backyard.

The branches were bare, stripped of their leaves by the biting winter wind. Despite the cold and the howling gusts, I climbed higher and higher, seeking refuge among the gnarled limbs and twisted branches. The rough bark scraped against my skin, but I hardly noticed as I nestled into a small nook, hidden from sight.

As I huddled there, shivering and alone, the weight of my newfound knowledge made me dizzy with confusion. Tears stung my eyes, freezing on my cheeks in the frigid air. Truth was I didn't want Nanny and PapPap to see me cry or sense the thoughts swirling through me.

But just as despair threatened to consume me, a spark of realization ignited within my mind. If Santa Claus wasn't the one crafting my gifts at the North Pole, if the Easter Bunny wasn't the mysterious deliverer of Easter chocolates and black jellybeans, and if the Tooth Fairy wasn't the silent visitor slipping money under my pillow, then who was responsible for these magical moments?

In an instant, it dawned on me like a beacon of light piercing through the darkness – it was my grandparents! Nanny and PapPap were the true architects of magic in my life. With a rush of clarity, memories flooded my mind – Nanny's lovingly prepared Easter baskets filled with colorful eggs and white chocolate bunnies, PapPap's whispered promises of secret meetings with the Tooth Fairy as he exchanged my lost tooth for shiny coins.

In that moment of revelation, the weight of disillusionment lifted, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude and wonder. The magic of Christmas, Easter, and lost teeth wasn't confined to mythical figures in distant lands – it was woven into the everyday moments shared with the ones I loved most.

The wind still howled, and the branches creaked and groaned, but I felt a newfound appreciation for the true source of magic in my life. I climbed down the tree not as a disillusioned boy, but as someone who had glimpsed the boundless wonder of love. And though the costumes and illusions of childhood may fade, the enduring magic of Nanny and PapPap's love would always remain, lighting up my world with its everlasting glow.

From that moment of realization onward, whenever someone dared to ask if Nanny and PapPap were my parents, I responded with a resounding “NO!” It wasn't just a matter of technicality; it was a declaration of love, respect, and gratitude. They were so much more than just parental figures to me.

Nanny and PapPap were the architects of magic in my life, the ones who filled my world with wonder and joy. They were my Santas, my Easter Bunnies, my Tooth Fairies – and sometimes, even my Batman and SuperWoman when they swooped in to save the day with their wise words and warm embraces. They deserved a title that reflected the grandeur of their love, the magnitude of their presence in my life. They weren't just parents; they were GRANDparents in every sense of the word.

With each passing day, my bond with Nanny and PapPap grew stronger, rooted in the shared moments of laughter, love, and learning. They were the stars that illuminated the darkest nights, the pillars of strength that supported me through life's storms.

And though time in decades have passed, and Nanny and PapPap may no longer be with me in person, their legacy lives on in the grand memories they left imprinted on my heart. They were, are, and forever will be my GRANDparents – a title that resonates with the depth of their love and the grandeur of their souls. My Grandmother’s Table, on its best days, is a living reflection of their love and light.

CHEF JOE

My Grandmother’s Table
115 Bridge Street
Charlevoix, MI 49720
231-437-3132

04/19/2024

The Gift of Laughter and Whimsy

The memory of that day is etched in my mind, a vivid recollection of the moment when my Great Aunt Clara – with her jolly demeanor, plump figure, and ever-loving spirit – decided to take whimsy to new heights. I had just finished another grueling day at school, my backpack weighed down by heavy textbooks and never-ending homework. As I trudged up the familiar cobblestone path toward Aunt Clara's cozy garage apartment, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. This was my sanctuary, a peaceful escape from the chaos of an urban junior high school teeming with racial, religious and territorial tensions. But little did I know: This visit would be unlike any other I had experienced before!

With great anticipation, I rapped on Aunt Clara's door, excited for her warm and melodic welcome. Instead, though, a discomforting silence hung in the air. “She’s always answered her door!” I thought. Concerned, I knocked again with a hint of urgency. Still, no answer. Bracing myself, I cautiously pushed open the door and entered, my heart racing as I called out for her . . . a bit trepidatiously.

“Aunt Clara? Are you home?”

The silence in the house was completely unfamiliar and eerie, broken only by the occasional creaking of floorboards under my weight. Each step I took felt like a thunderclap reverberating through the empty rooms. My heart began to pound as I searched every darkened corner, feeling increasingly anxious with each empty space I confronted. But then, as I pondered what to do next, a peculiar glint caught my eye in the dim light.

Perched atop a curtain rod in the living room was her prosthetic leg, its metal and plastic glinting in the soft light of the waning afternoon sun. A strange trophy on display for all to see! Her glasses, ones that she usually wore with such care, were now haphazardly positioned on the face of an old teddy bear reclining on her bed, giving it a comical and absurd appearance. And, in a kitchen corner next to the sink, an Easter bonnet rested jauntily on top of a mop head, as if it were a crown fit for a queen. I couldn't help but let out a giggle as confusion washed over me like a wave, trying to make sense of this quirky and unexpected scene before me. It was like a puzzle, each item carefully placed with a purpose that only she knew. But in that moment, it felt like we were sharing a private joke together.

Just as I was about to check with a neighbor, a lilting voice startled me from behind.

“Joey, dear, what are you doing?”

I spun around to see Aunt Clara hobbling into the room, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. My mouth opened to ask a million questions, as per usual, but before I could utter a word, she held up her hand.

“Ah, hold on, come in, dear! Sit yourself down and let me share a little wisdom with you. You know, as I've grown older, much, much older than you, I've come to realize a few things about life. One of them being that sometimes, darling, you just have to let go and laugh. Yes, life can throw all sorts of curveballs at you, but there's no harm in having a good “I’m-laughing-so-hard-I’m-gonna-pee-my-pants” laugh every now and then.

“And oh, how important it is to entertain yourself! Don't sit around waiting for life to hand you some grand spectacle. No, young man, sometimes you have to be the ringmaster of your own show. So pick up a book, paint a picture, or maybe even dance a little jig in the kitchen. Life's too short to wait around for entertainment to come to you.”

“Like putting your leg up near the ceiling?” I asked.

“Yes, darling, like my leg up on the ceiling! I did it for fun. And, besides, who says I can’t put my leg up there?! Anybody who does is simply wound too tight!

“And another thing! Don't be afraid to challenge convention. Sometimes the beaten path is just too well-worn for our liking. So why not blaze your own trail? Take risks, follow your heart, and don't let anyone tell you that you can't!

“Now, Joey, that's precisely what I have planned for our visit today. We're going to laugh until our bellies ache, entertain ourselves with stories and memories, live with gusto as if there's no tomorrow, and challenge convention by simply being ourselves. How about that?! So, let's raise a glass to the adventures that await us, shall we? Cheers to living life as big and bold as it can be!”

And with that simple pronouncement, everything clicked into place. Aunt Clara's eccentricity wasn't a cause for concern; it was a celebration of life, a reminder that sometimes the best way to navigate through the challenges of life is with a healthy dose of humor.

Aunt Clara's declaration about laughter and her plans for our visit sparked a mixture of excitement tinged with naughtiness – like I was doing something wrong but wouldn’t get in trouble for it! I couldn't imagine what other surprises she had up her sleeve, but I knew it would be an adventure unlike any other.

“Wait until you see what I have prepared for supper!” she exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with a prankish playfulness.

With my heart pounding in suspense and glee, I trailed behind her to the kitchen table. The moment she turned on the lights, my eyes were greeted with a dazzling display of colors and all kinds of things! The table was a masterpiece of mismatched dishware, each piece adding its own unique charm to the setting. Whimsical decorations such as a “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” game poster written in Polish, Mexican maracas, a Jewish dreidel, Catholic statues of Blessed Mary and St. Anthony and barely-filled balloons bedecked every surface, from the light fixture above to the walls around us. But it was the table itself that stole the show. Instead of the usual linen cloth, it was covered in festive gift-wrapping paper, one side imprinted with Christmas trees and elves, the other with multiple Cupids all shooting arrows, and each corner with ribbons and bows. It was a remarkable sight, one that truly showcased Aunt Clara's unmatched flair for creativity and ingenuity. My gaze lingered on every detail, taking in the vibrant hues and playful designs. I couldn't wait to dig into whatever delicious feast awaited us on this unconventional but undoubtedly delightful table.

And then came the moment that truly solidified this evening as one for breaking the rules. Aunt Clara, with a mischievous grin, presented dessert first!

“Dessert first!” I uttered in disbelief! “Who begins with dessert first?!”

“We do!”

And with that, Aunt Clara dished out her homemade blueberry pie, fresh out of the oven. The warm, delectable scent filled the room and made my mouth water. Its golden crust, good enough to eat all by itself, glistened with a light sheen from the melted sugar on top, and the deep purple filling bubbled up through the lattice crust. With a flourish, Aunt Clara added a generous scoop of creamy vanilla ice cream to each of our slices, the perfect complement to the tart sweetness of the pie. We eagerly dug into the decadent dessert, savoring each bite as the flavors exploded on my tongue. The ripe blueberries burst in my mouth, mingling with the rich flakey crust and smooth ice cream for a delightful fusion of textures and tastes. It was a moment of pure indulgence and we savored every last crumb and drop. Aunt Clara unashamedly licked her plate clean and I followed suit.

After a short break replete with my inability to stop laughing and my aunt’s running to the bathroom each time she started to laugh, the main course was revealed: A mountainous mound of mashed potatoes and rich, savory gravy. But true to her unconventional style, she proudly declared, “And both as lumpy as can be!”

The potatoes were like velvety clouds flecked with chunks of red and gold potato skins, and the gravy was thick and indulgent, coating every inch of my mouth with its scrumptious flavors. It was a dish that could only be described as pure comfort (slightly tinged with sinfulness) in each bite. And though it may not have been perfect in appearance, the imperfections only added to the alluring charm of this meal.

A playful smile danced upon my lips as I watched my great Aunt defy culinary norms with a devil-may-care glint in her eye. Each dish had been a delightful surprise, leaving me eager for the final course which she deemed the "appetizer" - a slender stalk of celery filled with fluffy whipped cream and dotted with my most favorite candy in the whole wide world: RED M&Ms!!!

Together, we enjoyed each course, savoring not just the flavors but the joy of breaking free from the constraints of convention. Aunt Clara's infectious laughter filled the room, reminding me once again that sometimes the most memorable moments are the ones where we dare to color outside the lines and embrace the unexpected twists that life throws our way.

When Aunt Clara rose from the table, I took that as a sign to leave. But no, oh no!

“You’re not going anywhere just now, young man! Follow me!”

With excitement bubbling in my chest, I eagerly trailed Aunt Clara as she hobbled out the door and along the porch, still without her prosthetic leg yet acting like Cyd Charise on a Hollywood sound stage. She led me to a small side table typically bare but now beautified with a crisp white tablecloth and surrounded by brightly colored flowers. As we approached, Aunt Clara gave a dramatic flourish and pointed toward the center of the table where a single cupcake sat, its light pink frosting shimmering in the dusk. Atop the cupcake stood one unlit candle and beside it a sign that read, “Happy Birthday, Joey! Happy Birthday, Clara!”

“But Aunt Clara,” I whispered, “my birthday isn't until November!”

“Yes, “ she declared, “it’s not my birthday either, and together we say a big fat ‘so what’ to that!”

Aunt Clara’s grin could not have been wider, her eyes twinkling with warmth, wisdom and sheer delight!

“Oh, Joey, let me tell you something about life. Not everyone gets a wakeup call from God each morning. Some who woke up yesterday are gone today. So why not live every day like it's a never-ending party? You see, as long as we have breath in our lungs, my sweet boy, we have another opportunity to dance with or without both legs, to laugh until our sides ache, and to feast upon the beauty of the world around us. Every moment is a chance to cherish, every smile a reason to be grateful. That doesn’t mean that every moment we encounter or every person we meet comes wrapped in shiny paper or adorned with a pretty bow. But every person has a story and every moment has meaning. Every person we meet along the path of life is a unique and wonderful gift. Every moment, every animal, every conversation, everything in life – if we just open our hearts to them – holds within it a gift, something we can use to make ourselves or the people around us just a little better, just a little brighter.

“So, let's embrace this never-ending adventure with open arms and hearts full of joy. Let’s savor each sunrise. Let’s treasure the memories we make. Let’s just celebrate the gift of life each and every day!”

Her words hung in the air like a gentle breeze, reminding me of the preciousness of every passing moment. Indeed, waking up each day is a gift we often take for granted until it is no longer ours to cherish.

“So yes,” Aunt Clara continued, her voice filled with conviction, “we're celebrating your birthday today and my birthday, too! Now, let me light the candle, and we'll both make a wish.”

With a flick of her lighter, the candle danced to life, casting a warm glow over our faces as we closed our eyes and made our silent wishes, my heart overflowing with gratitude for the simple yet profound moments we shared together.

Surrounded by the undeniable embrace of Aunt Clara's unconditional love and boundless spirit, I was struck with a realization: every day, including birthdays, are not just a simple acknowledgment of the passing of time. They can be and should be a celebration of life itself, a reminder to cherish every moment and embrace the sheer joy of being alive. As we sat before the flickering flame, its soft glow casting a gentle light upon us, I made a promise to myself to carry Aunt Clara's wisdom with me always. I would live each day as if it were a precious gift, waiting to be unwrapped and savored in all its beauty and wonderment. I continue to keep that promise to this day.

I’m grateful to say that Aunt Clara’s legacy lives on at My Grandmother’s Table. We wake up every morning knowing that it is a privilege to take another breath and, with that, another chance to become more and more of who we were created to be. And, as Aunt Clara once said: “Now if that ain’t a gift, I don’t know what is!”

With Love and Appreciation,
CHEF JOE

My Grandmother’s Table
115 Bridge Street
Charlevoix, MI 49720
231-437-3132