I wish Grandma could have seen our garden and our house, but I feel like she's really a part of it. There is no other explanation for my love of the garden except for Grandma. I think of her every time my hands are in the dirt, and I especially think of her every time I manage to grow a few pretty flowers. Each gladiola that I cut this summer made me think of her and our magnificent floral arrangements I made when I visited her and Grandpa in Nebraska. She had the most beautiful flowers. I'd love to show her our corn and ask her what she did to make those raspberries out by the alley so sweet and wonderful and abundant.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Here's to you, Grandma Zada
Last night I raised a glass to Grandma Zada. Actually, I raised a bottle--a bottle of MGD, of course. There was a Mirror Pond in the fridge, but it just didn't seem right. So I ran to the store while the Boyfriend baked us some wonderful zucchini slices and wandered around the "domestic" section until I found those familiar looking bottles. I planned to drink my beer out on the patio, where she would have enjoyed it most, but instead we found ourselves rushed for time. We got to go visit our good friends' new baby last night. So instead, the Boyfriend and I made a toast in the kitchen. Sure, Grandma didn't love to cook, but I think she would have loved that we were cooking with vegetables from our own garden.