When I felt lonely growing up, my grandmother’s company and cuisine were a soothing balm
My grandmother collected me from school every day and invariably brought me along to pick up any missing ingredients for dinner. I was a dark-skinned child with thick, curly hair, and she could have passed for white. People often didn’t know what to make of us, but rarely questioned our relationship aloud.
Once, at Schwegmann’s, our local grocery store, the cashier looked from me to my grandmother several times, a quizzical expression on her face. “How you come to be together?” she finally asked. My grandmother beamed at her, tousled my hair. “That’s my granddaughter,” she said, as if I was a hard-earned prize she had won. “That’s my granddaughter,” she repeated, accepting her change, retrieving her shopping bag and walking me to the car.
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