So I could write a long time on grandmothers, a lifetime probably. I knew one of mine growing up who doesn’t fit into molds of yesteryear as presented in meme and short video format as recalled on the internet. The other was deceased a couple of decades before I was even a glimmer and I had one picture of her I sat and stared at for hours as a child, just wanting to know her. Okay, there I go again…

But my maternal grandmother was not the idealized domestic goddess like a lot of these cook influencers like to project about grandmas in general. The latest snippet I saw was about ermine icing which led with “your grammy may have made this”. No, she did not. She did very few things “from scratch” which endeared me to her as much as I am culinarily inclined now. It has nothing to do with my grandmother in some “homey” sense outside of the economic strides she took as a wage-earning working woman.

My grandmother was a master at finding the best hot deli sandwiches, large New Yawk style pizzas, and picking up a greasy sack of “crumbly burgers” that I have worked at recreating as an homage to what I knew as cuisine at grandma’s. She worked a tedious job and made six children, taking advantage of the booming economic situation around her to not focus so much on perfectly crafted meals at home. She could boil a potato, make a gravy, and she and my grandfather would work on a Thanksgiving turkey together. The next day my grandad would make some old fashioned grits for breakfast, as salty as he was, with the biggest slab of butter running all over, and I couldn’t have asked for more. I miss them both so much.

Her family still in the Appalachia would send cooking pamphlets from their get togethers occasionally. Squirrel salad anyone? Mind that I was an 80s child, not far from such necessities. Not for me, and she was happy in the city as far as I knew, never having to worry about dicing up roasted squirrel.

Though there was one delicacy we both enjoyed that other family scoffed at, and that was what is often called the ambrosia salad. It was a bit of a weird mishmash of jello, whipped cream, pineapple, shredded coconut, and mini marshmallows, but it can vary, apparently. Sometimes she threw in chopped celery! She and I were the only ones who really liked it, and I savored that she and I would giggle about it together, knowing it was a seasonal indulgence no one else “got” besides us two. So she would come out in her completely utilitarian apron she put on once or twice a year to tell me it’s ready with eyerolls from the others.

Our birthdays were days apart after Thanksgiving and I will never forget that silly little thing we shared. She gave me the most memorable birthday gifts in my childhood in a nonchalant way that belied how generous she really was. Not perfectly picturesque to put into a meme that gets millions of views and her life and journey was not one that fits into these narratives about how feminism has “worked”. We’ve regressed so much without working women who were also matriarchs like her getting the recognition they deserve for reproducing and providing – for making a life for generations after them through poverty and struggle. No, my grandmother did not make ermine frosting.