By Al Drinkle
It's occurred to me that I've written somewhat extensively about three of my grandparents, but very little about my paternal grandmother. One of my very earliest memories involves her so that's a good place to start.
My grandmother loved to eat, just like I do. She also loved to feed people, and she was a good cook, though her tastes weren’t particularly eclectic and would probably be in line with most Canadians of her generation. Her typical preparation for a large family gathering would feature a sizable serving of a conservatively dressed protein accompanied by mashed or baked potatoes, an additional vegetable preparation (perhaps baked carrots with brown sugar or cauliflower gratin) and a vast batch of Parker House rolls. I always enjoyed eating at my grandparents’ house, and as an adult I'm in awe of her capacity to have fed 25 or more people from her own kitchen with relative nonchalance.
My grandmother had a particular affinity for the Western interpretation of Chinese food. I recall a lunch at a long-defunct Chinese restaurant on Macleod Trail in Calgary on a sunny winter day when I was two or three years old. I can't remember who else was there, but my grandmother was sitting across from me.
Hot and sour soup arrived with tangy aplomb, followed by fried dumplings — inconspicuous little pockets filled with delectable porky secrets. Next came a sizzling rice dish which also probably marks the first time that I appreciated the sound of food. Along with the appetising hiss and crackle, its exotic aroma stung my young nostrils in a way that communicated directly with my stomach. I immediately began salivating and was anxious to investigate the flavours…
“Wait and let it cool,” said Grandma as she balanced a forkful in the air, watching until the rivulets of steam dissipated in the horizontal winter sun. Then she closed her eyes, took a bite and leaned back in her chair, moaning with fervent approval as she chewed. I followed her lead, anticipating a similar level of gratification. Indeed, the sweet, chewy rice had a flavour to rival its tantalising aroma.
Having swallowed, Grandma opened her eyes and leaned forward, bringing her face close to mine.
“I'd kill for this food,” she all but whispered, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
I stopped chewing, mouth agape and horrified by what I'd just heard. My grandmother would kill for this food?!? Had she killed before? Was that how we were here today? Did she use a knife, a gun or her bare hands? Poison, maybe, or a piano string? Did she kill at random or was it calculated in proportion to the meal? I looked at my dear grandmother as she perpetuated her own ecstasy with another bite. Thinking it over, I decided that I could accept and keep her secret. After all, she's family — and the food is delicious.
“When do you think they'll bring the ginger beef, Grandma?”
