Sara,
Do you remember when Gramma and Grampa took us to Wendy’s for dinner? It was the Wendy’s right across from their house. I think we were maybe ten or eleven years old? The dinner sticks out in my mind because Gramma always cooked, and so it was very unusual that her and Grampa took us out to eat. I loved eating out, we both loved fast food, so I have to imagine we were very excited to be getting such a special treat. But I’m stuck trying to remember why we were there with them. They never ate out, let alone fast food. When we were growing up I remember Gramma saying on multiple occasions that she didn’t like to eat out because the people making the food could spit in it; a strange fear, but they were farmers, from a small town, with one restaurant, where they knew the people working, so having a stranger cook your food probably was deeply uncomfortable for them.
Gramma and Grampa ordered each of us a burger and fries. I didn’t like burgers at that age; you and I always got chicken. I wonder why we didn’t just tell them that? Remember how at McDonalds you and I would get the 9-piece chicken McNuggets meal and we’d tear all the fried “skin” into tiny bits, storing them in one side of the container, then we’d dunk the “chicken” into sweet and sour sauce? So gross. And weird. Anyway, what I remember about going to Wendy’s with Gramma and Grampa that night was that I did not like my burger. I don’t know why I was so repulsed by burgers, I loved ground beef in tacos, but I refused to take more than a few bites. Gramma kept asking me what was wrong with my burger, and I remember telling her I had filled up on the fries, but she was convinced the meat was off. Grampa told her to complain, and so she folded the metallic foil over the now cold burger and marched it up to the counter.
One of the things I always tell people about Gramma is how well dressed she was. Every morning she came out of her room as if guests would be arriving any second. And often they did. Their house was a hub of activity.
I have no recall of what she was actually wearing that night at Wendy’s, but I imagine it was a bright colored blouse, tucked into perfectly ironed and hemmed slacks, with low flats in a complimentary color to the blouse. Gramma and Grampa felt fancy to me, more fancy than the other people eating at Wendy’s. I remember feeling like we stuck out. Even at that age, I thought their expectations were too high for Wendy’s. I can see Gramma’s springy, perfectly permed hair, her body bent accusingly over the counter, a line of people behind her, my burger in her arthritic hand. I remember your face next to me at the table, likely a mirror of my own, embarrassed, a guilty flush on your cheeks. You were looking at your own burger, which was only slightly more eaten than mine had been. I hoped that they would give Gramma a refund, but instead she returned a few minutes later with a new burger for me. If I’m being honest, I don’t remember if I ate that one, but I do remember Grampa raising his voice about the burger being bad as we went to leave.
The chairs at Wendy’s were wood, remember? Delicate compared to the plastic ones that scooped our bodies at McDonalds, where we preferred to dine. When we got up to go, I remember Grampa’s chair coming out from under him too quickly and toppling over. People stared. I can feel the silky slick fabric of my winter coat in my hand, as I shoved my arms through the sleeves, following Gramma, who was in a huff, out into the dark and cold. I recall the night feeling like a total disaster. I felt ashamed that I hadn’t eaten the burger and at our Grandparents behavior. They always seemed so fun, so in control, so in charge. I remember that night at Wendy’s being the first time I saw any weakness or vulnerability in them. Do you remember that night?
One of the last meals I ever remember having with Gramma was in 2005, before she died. She was lively, but confused a lot, likely a side effect of her cancer treatment. I was home visiting Calgary between tours; you and I were touring so much then because So Jealous was doing well. You were back in Montreal, with Emy. I spent most of my trip to Calgary rambling around the house with Gramma, learning how to make chicken stew, catching up on soaps, and pestering her with my video camera. She hated me filming her, but I would get her talking about “the old days” and she would relent. She gave me and Aunt Julie a tutorial on how to make pie dough. Do you remember the video I cut from the footage? Do you still have a copy somewhere?
I remember one of the nights I was there, mom came from work, and the cousins came from next door. Gramma wasn’t able to cook for us all anymore, and she said, “Luke, get a bucket of chicken,” to Grampa. The “Chicken,” was from KFC. It was her favorite, she told me as she ate. I wonder if she didn’t worry about someone spitting in it, because it was deep fried? Or maybe in her diminished state she just forgot how much she hated fast food? I think maybe, over time, as the years went on, she realized she didn’t need to always be the one cooking, providing, hosting. Maybe all along her feeding us was her way of showing us she loved us. And maybe she was so upset when I didn’t like my burger from Wendy’s because even though she hadn't cooked it, she was still responsible for feeding me. She couldn’t have her favorite grandchild go hungry, could she? Let me know if you remember any of this and if you’ve got a copy of the video.
Tegan
Share this post