Grandma

She will always be a string of huge freshwater pearls—her faithful companions whenever she dressed up, iridescent and lovely.

Looking at her now, one would never know that she wore those pearls like no woman I have ever known. Classy and talented, kind and composed, artistic and elegant, Grandma Elizabeth Taylor brought beauty and sophistication to everything around her.

The office in her Falls Church, Virginia house was full of letterhead with her little logo and We Cater, Inc. written across the top. My siblings and I would spend hours down there, using her old stationary in the typewriter on her desk. She was a professional caterer. Adventurous, too. She learned how to cook in France, biking across the country and discovering the best sauces and pastry creams. Her piles of recipes are well-loved, stained with oil and coffee.

Trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s house on the Eastern Shore of Virginia meant three things: flounder for breakfast, her stunning chocolate cake with ganache and raspberries, and paella served from her big copper pot. Margaret and the cousins didn’t like the shrimp. The rest of us didn’t care; it meant more for us.

Grandma lived in the kitchen. We would hear the pots banging together, or her chopping away at the thirty cloves of garlic that she put in everything. “You can never have too much garlic.” Sometimes there would be an occasional “Ow!” yelled across the house when she forgot that the pan she had just taken out of the oven was—surprisingly—still incredibly hot. Whether it was a Buche de Noel at Christmastime, or a simple chicken salad sandwich, Grandma’s hands created the most beautiful meals.

She was good with her hands, not only julienning green beans in seconds but also using pencil and watercolor to capture life. EA and I would try hard to pull Grandma away from the stove to the dining room table to draw “ladies” for us. She would draw us a stylish lady, decked out in the newest Nordstrom fashions, or a shopping lady with a trench coat and grocery bags overflowing with vegetables. They were always fashionable and sophisticated—the way I pictured Grandma when she was young.

She cared about aesthetics—Mom learned that from Grandma. And I am trying to learn it, too. It might add a few more minutes to the preparation, but a plate of coordinated colors is a way they love others. Those hours in the kitchen every day were out of love.

Now she doesn’t know that I am her granddaughter. Alzheimer’s is taking her quickly. She spends her days wandering around the few places she is allowed to be without a nurse, complaining about the weather and how cold it always is. But there is still something of the woman she used to be. She greets each resident politely, and always asks us if we had lunch yet and if she can make us something. Her calloused hands are just as I remember them when they would be covered in burns and band-aids from her kitchen escapades.

And she still loves beautiful things. Every time I wear my pearls, I think of Grandma and her pearls. I hope that I can cook and draw and love others like she did. And I hope that someday I can live up to those pearls.