It's my grandmother's clam chowder. I decided it was soup weather a few days ago, and called my mom for the recipe. Decidedly easy to make. Decidedly difficult to get down tear free.
Through no skill of my own, I'm sure, it turned out just like hers. The smell of it brought back memories of her little kitchen with its funky carpet and the wall next to the table that was always warm to the touch (it was actually where the vents to the furnace were, heh). I could smell the house, I could hear the clink of the spoons against the china bowls she'd serve it in, I could see her in the room, sitting across the table watching us eat it with that smile of hers....she always looked so regal, her features so refined in their age, her hair just the right shade of gray.
I didn't realize until tonight how much I actually miss my Grandma Trotta. I was living in Washington still when she passed away, and wasn't able to make it back for the funeral. I had no one to share the grief with, no one to seek the comfort from because they were hurting just like me. Worst, though, I think...I never got to say good-bye. My good-bye came in the form of a few emailed words written by me and spoken by my sister at her funeral, and a few fingers kissed to her gravestone-less mound of grass at the cemetery when I flew down for Memorial Day.
I guess this is as fitting a tribute as any, really. If there was one thing Grandma Trotta loved, it was to do things for the family, to make us grandkids smile. Well it did just that, Grandma, even if there were more than a few tears mixed in, and your little Nugget great-grandson got to try some as well; I do wish you could see him now, but I'm comforted here in knowing that the day he was born, he left your arms for mine. I miss you so much, and love you always. Give Otis a few extra belly rubs from me.
If one were to ask me how my day went, in the spirit of Grandma Trotta, my answer would be a smile and the simple words, "Miserably well."
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