Dear Memere

I thought of you today.  I had steak and green beans for lunch — fresh green beans.  Do you remember when you used to make me cube steak with green beans, mashed potatoes and that gravy powder for lunch?  Those were the days when I slept over after Pepere died.  I was 7.  The scent of the green beans and steak heating in the microwave today brought me right back to you.  We would sit at your table in the kitchen, and I would scarf food and ask you questions, and you would answer me in that curt way.  You know — answering me with the Iron Hand of Memere, kind of like that time Dick asked, “What are these?” when you put a plate of brownies in front of him, and you answered, “They’re good!” and gave him a look.  He didn’t ask any more questions, but I was not so easily dissuaded.

You never ate as much as me.

Sometimes I wonder what you would think of all this gluten nonsense.  It’s not really nonsense, but it can feel like it, particularly when I’m hungry and I can’t find something to eat, and people are looking at me like I’m purposely being difficult.  Somehow, I know you’d adapt.  Either that, or you’d forget and try to serve me bread, and then I’d remind you and you’d say, “M’oh tad zee!”  I don’t even know what that means.

Your birthday is coming up.  My birthday passed.  How about we celebrate by you sending me some divine inspiration on how to can?  I’m not into saving cooked chicken for later (like the kind we found in your kitchen cupboards), but I wouldn’t mind learning the art of making grape jelly.  There are some blackberry bushes in the park across the way — I bet that would turn out some awesome preserves.

Lots of love,

your little cochon