I used to live with my grandparents. Itās rarer now but common back then for three generations to live together. Since both my parents worked, my grandparents took care of my sister and me when we were kids.
Grandma passed away when I was 11 or 12, but Grandpa was going strong well into my adulthood. Heād always been retired for as long as I could remember but he was no couch potato. An early riser, heād go for his morning walk, have two breakfasts, buy groceries, and sometimes go to the movies and visit his friends or his brother who lived 1-2 hours away. Iām sure there were other stuff. I never asked what heĀ did but he was active and liked to go out. Heād always been like this.
It occurred to me only recently that this outgoing grandpa spent at least two years cooking lunch for me every weekday when it wasnāt absolutely necessary. My school was only 10 minutesā walk from home so I started going home for lunch, once I was old enough to be allowed to leave during lunch hour. Every noon I went home to a ready meal he prepared. It was simple but even so he was stuck at home in the middle of the day everyday because I needed to eat. Because of him I could escape bad school food, and take a midday nap before going back to class. I donāt remember a time when he told me to get my lunch at school because he had to go somewhere.
Grandpaās specialty was spaghetti on broth. He couldāve used any traditional noodles but liked spaghetti better. Preferred al dente even with his dentures.Ā It became his signature dish, along with soggy French toast, that my sister and I associate with Grandpa, to this day.
You can get spaghetti on broth in some eateries here. Not ubiquitous but not uncommon. Itās not something I normally have but one day, a few years after Grandpa passed, I saw it on a menu. I ordered it. As I began to eat, my tastebuds opened a floodgate. I was sitting in a crowded, noisy eatery famous for its rude waiters, and tears came streaming down uncontrollably. I wonder what those rude waiters said after I left.
That was the second time I sat crying alone for Grandpa in a restaurant. The first time was the day he passed. I was in the middle of a serial business tripāBangkok, Taipei, Tokyoāwhen I got the call while having breakfast. I had a slight fever but I went about my day. There is a record of what that day was about because I was working on a photoshoot and there are photos from that day published in a magazine.
Iām an insomniac. Sometimes when I lie awake in the dark at night, I think of death. Sometimes I get fearful. When I do, I like to think that when the time comes, Grandpa would be there to pick me up. I wonder what he would look like. I donāt think heād look as old as I remember him? But I should recognise him anyway. Speculating about the technicalities of the afterlife would then keep me awake some more.
Itās now fast approaching the 13th anniversary of Grandpaās passing. He wouldāve been 113 now. But thatās not exactly why I am writing this. The other night I was suddenly overcome with griefā¦ about Outlander. Out of nowhere I was grieving over what couldāve been. The passionate love between my favourite couple becoming transcendental, and scenes that I was yearning toĀ see but now Iād never get to. There was no going back and I was crushed.Ā
And then slowly my brain decided this wasnāt something worth getting sad over and flitted over to something else. The feeling that grief could be sneaky, overpowering and triggered by the unexpected brought up memories of me crying over spaghetti. So Iām writing this down instead, the memory that deserves more virtual ink than the silliness that is that TV show.
As for spaghetti on broth, itās as straightforward as it sounds! Cook your spaghetti in a boiling broth together with any condiments you like, veggies, ham, meat, etc. Unfortunately Grandpaās recipe is lost. He wrote me a letter in his shaky handwriting teaching me how while I was away in university. I hope it will reappear one day.Ā
