A few weeks ago, I lost my grandmother.  She lived a very beautiful and a very full 93 years.   Her funeral was far more of a celebration of life than a sad event.   The day was full of good memories, family, and, of course, wonderful food.

My grandmother is the person who originally gave me my love of all things food.  She was born in 1922, which means she lived through the Great Depression, the rationing of World War II, the microwave TV dinner craze, and the advent of the Food Network.  I spent each summer with my grandmother as a child, and she, in turn, would spend a large majority of every day in the kitchen working on meal prep.  From mid-morning until dinner was served she had spent the day doing something she loved:  cooking for people who loved to eat.   A lot of the recipes that you will read on this blog will be based in something she likely taught me to cook.

The one thing I did not inherit, however, was her ability to ALWAYS have the right thing to wear.  Her favorite color was purple, and she wore it with abandon in any color or print she could get her hands on.  She was immaculately dressed every time she left the house — even down to the accessories she would expertly select to match what she was wearing.  The photos of her from the 1940s were always stunning, and she maintained a keen eye for what was “in” well into her final years.   In fact, a few months ago my grandmother made the transition into an assisted living facility with a physical therapy element.  She quickly noticed that the other ladies regularly work jogging suits, so she insisted that my mother go out an buy her a few outfits so that she fit in.  Fashionable until the very end.

So, if you will bear with me on this long blog post, I will tell you why I was, once again, underdressed at the occasion where I would have wanted nothing more than to be dressed to perfection.

My grandmother passed away while I was on vacation in Bratislava.  You can sense where I’m going with this:   I have nothing to wear.  With about 36 hours until I had to drive to Vienna to board a plane to go back to Pittsburgh, full panic mode took over.  While I’m no stranger to shopping a foreign land, I am a little bit of a novice at finding formal wear in a foreign land.   Knowing that I would give a eulogy at the funeral, I needed something basic, black, and classic.

Bratislava, for those of you not familiar, is the capital of the Slovak Republic, which was formed when the former Czechoslovakia broke up in 1993.  It’s a European capital so there is an abundance of fashionable choice.  Those choices (fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) are for women who did not grow up in Middle America eating a corn and beef based diet from a woman who valued butter because it had been rationed when she was a child.  I think I walked into no less than 50 stores that day.  NOTHING. FIT.

In a complete state of exasperation, I wandered into what I will lovingly describe as the post-Soviet version of Macy’s. Honestly, I have no idea what the store was called, but housewares were on the bottom level, women’s wear on the middle level, and children’s/men’s clothing upstairs.  Arriving at the top of the escalator was akin to arriving into an oasis of black, basic, and reasonably priced clothing.

After ferreting through a few racks, I found something that would be suitable.  A basic black shift with a belt.  Easy.   Cue the inner monologue:  “Hm. Size.  Let’s see.  I’m a 32/24 in jeans in America.  Let’s start with that.”  I pull a 32 off the rack.  It would not have fit Nadia Comeneci on a good day.  “OK.  So, I’m definitely not a 32.  Let’s try a 40.  Surely I can’t be bigger than 40.”  I would say the 40 fits a healthy Kate Hudson.  Kate, I am not.   “For the love of all things sacred, what is the biggest size on this rack?!”  I pull a 48 off the rounder.  I quickly accept the reality that I am a size 48 in Bratislava.   I snatch all remaining size 48’s off every rack in every style.

It’s at this point that I start to feel just a small bit woozy.  I consult a clock.  I haven’t eaten in 12 hours. As you come to know me, you will learn this is blasphemy.  Before I fall out in the middle of the store, I figure I should make my way back to that cafe I saw on the bottom floor.  Since this is a department store, items can be carried between floors, right?  Wrong.  Very, very wrong.  In my attempt to wrestle an arm full of dresses down the escalator, the security guard notices me.  He clearly thinks I’m about to abscond with the store’s entire plus size dress collection.

We finally come to the agreement that I will leave my preciouses in a pile near an empty table at the top of the escalator.  ((It’s still unclear to me why this table was entirely empty, but I didn’t have time to carefully consider this.))  My Slovak is not good, so in broken Croatian, I said something to the effect of “I need all of these.”  In my low blood sugar state, I couldn’t remember the verb for “to try on.”  Whatever.  Juice.  I need juice, fine sir.

After slamming an OJ in the cafe downstairs, I conquered my pile of size 48’s.  Three dresses out of about 20.  Total cost:  120 EUR.  That’s #winning in my book.

While giving my eulogy a day later, I knew my Grandmother would have been proud:  a dress purchased in Slovakia, shoes procured from Amazon (with one day shipping), and a fresh set of panty hose reclaimed from my Mom’s spare stash in the hall closet.  I wore her high school ring from 1940 as one of my only accessories.

It’s hard to pick what recipe to attach to this (admittedly long) post.  You’ll see many Grandma inspired recipes in the weeks to come, but I decided to leave you with this pecan pie.  It was one of her favorites, and I’ll even let you in on her secret of adding some vinegar to cut the sugar.

Ingredients

• Pie Crust (No judgement from me if you use pre-made from the store. My Grandmother will judge you, but I won’t.)
• 1 stick of butter
• 3 T flour
• 1 C dark brown sugar
• 1 C light brown sugar (If you want to shake this up a bit, you could use 1/2 c light brown sugar and 1/2 c corn syrup)
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/2 C whole milk (I take no responsibility if you use skim milk.  It’s already got a stick of butter. Go big.)
• 3 eggs
• 2 t white vinegar
• 1.5-2 c of pecans (You can used the crushed ones from the store, or crush some at home while leaving some whole)