Comment: Enjoyment of a grandmother's love, one meal after the other

My most lively memories for food are overcooked spaghetti in a wooden shell and my grandmother Phyllis.

For decades, my grandmother's wooden bowls were stacked in the closet next to the fridge in every old, two -story house in Gardena. They followed everyone in every retirement home in the palm descent, to which they lovingly refer to the “toe day”. She was part of the voluntary wellness check committee, the other residences called to make sure that they are still breathing.

The shells were one -sided and smooth, burned and failed of countless years of liptone and spaghetti from the sides.

She died on July 17 at the age of 91.

These are not the expensive cherry wood, olive wood or acacia, which you may find in Crate & Barrel. The wood was thin, pressed and woven

My grandmother bought her almost 40 years ago in a restaurant supply business in Los Angeles. An internet search for “cheap wooden bowls” creates pictures of something similar.

During my childhood summer, I spent most of my days to laze on a Fran towel on a piece of lump grass in the back yard of my big partner and eat from one of these wooden shells.

My hair that was too long was always damp from the above -ground pool that my late grandfather Warner taught me how to swim. “You are my favorites,” he would say. He said that to all grandchildren.

Phyllis and Warner were Jewish, but never Kosher. She always boasted that every grandfather Openad the first kosher shop on the Pico Boulevard, although she never reminds the name again.

There was always bacon in the house. She used a plastic shell to get the bacon to microwaves until it was crisp and perfect. And all the most famous dishes included both meat and cheese in these wooden shells.

The noise and feeling of my bend fork against the wood are even noticeable. My grandmother's spaghetti was always cooled after Al Dente for two minutes. I pressed the pasta between my tongue and my front teeth and counted how many I chew. The feeling was just exquisite.

The meat sauce, slightly salty and grainy, was always seasoned with Lawy's Spaghetti Mix. The beef wood meat was powdered until it became one with the crushed tomatoes with doses. My grandmother pushed the emerald green cylinder from Parmesan and never questioned the Everest-Sized-Berg into the bowl.

I studied the grooves and fucks in the arches and wondered what luck when I accidentally ate wood. Is a tiny tree growing in my stomach?

Armed with a head full of dreams, a slim understanding of the reality and the high of a new Hello Kitty backpack for the quick-grown fall, I sip my pasta, which of the fear of the 1/8. But never this meal.

The shells were a promise that at least for the time it took to eat what they fulfilled would be okay. I have my grandmother for the best and for so many of my most beautiful memories, food and preferences.

It is thanks to Phyllis Harris that I prefer the Lipton Mix Mix Mix Dip, which is whipped in a restaurant kitchen. And that I know how to align everything from a small meeting to a real estate camp. It is the reason why my friends ask me to make Latkes forever Hanukka party. Each holiday meetings were legendary, with a spread of golden Latkes, brisket, bagels, lox and white fish. And there was a bowl with black olives. My cousins and I push an olives on every finger and put them in the mouth when we walked around the house.

My grandmother was the master of something that the dirt plate was called. I can't remember which of us classifies with the name, but I suspect that I was. It was more of a table-wide spread button, an actual plate that looked different Deli cold, leaves made of Roman salad, dill cucumber chips, black olives, Slhrede cheese (always Havarti and Ususallly Provolon) potato salad, Slced Rye Bread and Challah, Ramekins from Mayonnise and Mustard. While Grandma made every own tuna salad and each own potato salad, both filled with hard scales with hard scales, the coleslaw only came from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

“KFC or bust,” she would say. And she meant it.

I brought countless acquaintances into the desert to visit them, and would a dirt slab on the dining table wait every time? But on the plate.

After Grandma had lived in Los Angeles most of the time, she was used to the cuines in the city. Every step after Palm Desert 20 years ago was accompanied by a culinary shock. Each trip visited came to bring with you to bring you to

As a relegation descent, we exchanged the 30-second walk in the 110-degree heat to drive down the road. She called the Pharing area as a “ice cream parlor”, and we were sitting in the blood pressure chairs that we were lucky. I was just Everse to take over everyone to order the chocolate malt crunch (the best taste). Grandma only had eyes for Rainbow Sherbet.

Anyone who sells in the ice cream parlor learned them about work and my love life, but never binding. She listened to this and was never judged, even though I gave every Plenk to the question. When I made it to the bottom of my cone, I felt at least one person in the world who understood me.

As much as Grandma with her weekly card games and Mahjong liked to moderate the company, she lived for an evening. She had regularly had her hair made in a golden buff. Every nails were always painted. I don't think I have ever left every house, let alone every bedroom with the lipstick. There were clothes for the grocery store, clothes for the shopping center, lunch with the girls and dinner. We have often staged mini fashion shows to compare outfits.

Sullivan's, a lively chain steakhouse on the second floor of the El Paseo shopping center in Palm Desert, was our favorite place. She went so often that she had a normal table. She always enjoyed a glass of red wine. I sipped a martini. And we both ordered the crispy Shanghai Calamari. This is the highlight of luxury and culinary performance for grandma. A plate of beaten and fried squid from Point Judith, Ri, covered with sweet chilli glaze with cherry pape, spring onions and sesame grains.

The rounds of squid were always tender and excavated in a light, crispy, shaggy coating. The orange sauce with a chile-covered sauce was rod and sweet, similar to the spice that was typically served with chai grill chicken. I can see how everyone licks the sauce off the fingers while I tap this.

One of the last great meals we shared was in Alice B., Mary Sue Millicen and the Susan Feniger restaurant in the Living Out LGBTQ+ Community in Palm Springs. Feniger. My grandmother, who was a fan of Feniger for years, was thrilled to meet the cook. When the television was in Grandma's house, it was set to the food network.

We are amazed at the texture of the cookies, equal parts and fluff. We ended every drop of honey and butter. Grandma and I shared a love for fried chicken and talked about the chicken schnitzel of the restaurant for Moch on the way home.

She became tears in her eyes when we ended dinner. Grandma was someone who treated every meal, be it at home or a dirt plate, as if it were something that can be enjoyed and appreciated, gratefully for any moment that we were allowed to spend together.

I know that this pang in my chest gets boring over time, but I am confident that these memories will remain alive. I can summon the smell of every kitchen. The warmth of every hug. The sound of every laugh and the way it filled a room. I can taste every spaghetti and feel the grooves of the wooden shells. Tank you, grandma, because you showed me how delicious this life can.