A Memory
I told my grandmother that we were proud new parents of a bread maker. (Stretching the not-having-a-baby-but-look-at-the-other-cute-things-we-have-in-our-life gig a little far? Maybe.)
I remember my grandmother making bread from scratch all summer long. Only raisin bread. I got to help put in the raisins. Grandpa said the storebought kind didn’t have enough raisins. She never made any other kind of bread, just raisin bread.
“A bread maker? How nice. I used to make your grandfather spice bread.”
“Yes, raisin bread. With extra raisins.”
She shook her head, “Nooo…” slowly, like she was letting me down gently, “He didn’t like it with cinnamon…he wanted some other spice…cumin! That’s it. I made it with cumin.”
This conversation haunts me.
Am I remembering wrong? Can I have such strong, specific feelings that are completely made up?
Can she be wrong? Has all her joking about being an old woman finally come to pass?
Or worst, are we both right? Is she thinking of a different time, a different bread. If so, I’m missing out on one more story to cling to when she’s gone.