“So tell me…, are you my daughter or my granddaughter?”
“Granddaughter. My beloved granddaughter.” She was
looking into my face with warmth in her eyes. “Very good.”
Reassured in the facts, she returned to peeling vegetables.
“Just after we finish making the soup, I’m going to give you
something. A necklace of raw amber.”
“You’ve already given it to me. It’s exquisite. I tell everybody
it’s a present from you.”
“Well, no need to tell it to everybody.” She laughed with
restraint, but joy was present in her voice.
Moderation and restraint ruled her life. When I was a child,
I was fascinated with how she could make something out of
nothing. In her house nothing was ever wasted. I loved
listening to her stories about which vegetables get along
well and which ones do not like growing in each other’s
company and why. “Some of it is science and some of it is
my own philosophy,” she would emphasize. The vegetables
competed with each other in quality and quantity, just to
get into Grandma’s good graces. Cucumbers multiplied.