A year ago yesterday, my granddaddy died. Last night, I threw a small dinner party. Had some friends over, served some New Orleans-style food, as well as some ridiculously rich desserts. Toasted champagne. At first, I didn't think about why I was having the party on the 18th of February, besides the fact that my guests were free. But as the day wore on - as I shopped, and cleaned, and cooked, and set the table, and attempted (and failed) to handle raw meat - I thought more and more how Granddady would have liked that. That I was feeding people, inviting them into my home and my life and serving them fatty, Southern food and absurd desserts and laughing with them.
I wasn't hurting too bad yesterday. I'm hurting now. Thank God I can still remember his laugh. How he would get up every morning and make sausage and bacon and biscuits and grits and slice fruit so we'd have a vast breakfast awaiting when we awoke. How every meal was an extravagance to be shared and treasured. How food can be love, if dealt with in the right way - in the way he dealt with it. How he would stand in the kitchen with his apron on, leaning on the counter with a glass of red wine by his hand, laughing while he cooked. How amazing he was at crossword puzzles. How well he knew his God. How much love existed in his heart.
Granddaddy, I miss you. I love you. I hope to never forget.
-Avalon
Mannus hiec inimica tyrannus.
