Goodbye, Grandma

This Memorial Day weekend, we buried my beloved grandmother. Needless to say, there was a lot of memorializing going on. My grandma was a strong and opinionated woman, especially considering that she was born before women were even allowed to vote in the U.S. But since she spent her childhood wandering from country to country with her family after being forced to flee Marash, Turkey (historic Armenia) as a result of the Armenian Genocide, the inequality of women was the least of her concerns. She was too busy trying to stay alive.

My gorgeous grandma with her three sons
at her 100th birthday party 

My grandmother was warm, generous, and vivacious. She would do anything for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She loved to laugh and have fun. She was a great cook who also loved to eat, and she was always trying to feed us. "EAT! EAT!" was the soundtrack of my childhood.

She was also extremely stylish, took great care of herself, and was concerned about her appearance. Up until the very end, whenever she posed for a photo, she would make sure to take her glasses off for the picture. She got her hair done every week, her nails were always painted, and she never went out without putting on makeup and jewelry first--all this when she was ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD.

She was a force to be reckoned with.

Just as she was concerned about her own appearance, so too did she feel that others should put some effort into how they looked. She was not a fan of sloppiness. Even during the last few years of her life, when her eyesight was failing, she would somehow still notice what I was wearing. If I happened not to have any lipstick on, sure enough I'd hear about it: "Honey, why don't you put on a little lipstick? It looks so nice." She was almost blind yet she could tell I wasn't wearing lipstick from across the room? Hmm...I never quite figured that one out.

Even in her late 90s, my grandma was still willing to get
down on the floor to play with her great-grandchildren.

Whenever I knew that I was going to see my grandmother, I would put extra thought into my outfit. So on Thursday, as I was packing and getting dressed for the trip up to Massachusetts for the wake and funeral, I chose what I was going to wear carefully. I wanted to pay my respects to my dear grandma by looking the way she would have wanted me to look.

(I wish I could believe that she was watching us from above, but I don't--not really. It's a nice thought, though, and who knows.... So I made sure to look nice just in case.)

And you can bet that I most definitely wore lipstick.

Grandma, you are still in my head...and you will always be in my heart. Forever.

I miss you.

Meat Is Murder. But What Do I Tell My Kids?

I was making chicken salad yesterday, and I offered my five-year-old son a tiny piece to feed to our cat. We've only had Paulina a few weeks, and she's still a bit shy. I thought if my son offered her a delicious morsel of chicken, perhaps she'd eat out of his hand--and that would totally make his day.

As my son headed to the stairs with the chicken, he called out, "Paulina, here's some fresh chicken from the stream!"

I'm pretty sure the fact that chicken is from, well, chicken is something he already knew. I'm positive we've discussed this before. But you know how little kids are--they only remember what they want to remember. And because he knows cats like fish, I guess he just assumed.

"Chicken isn't from the stream; it's not a fish. Chicken is chicken," I corrected.

"Does that mean the chicken had to be killed first?"

"Yes."

"So that means farmers are so, so mean, right?"

Uh, hmmm.... I didn't know what to say, because I do sort of think farmers are mean. I just don't understand it: How they can witness the birth of an adorable little piglet, raise this intelligent animal until adulthood, and then slaughter it for bacon? I guess you get used to it after a while, but still. I want my son to know the truth but I don't love the idea of him going around bad-mouthing Old MacDonald all the time. After all, nobody wants their kid to be a Debbie Downer.

I'm trying to raise my son so he'll be equipped to make his own educated decisions on issues like whether or not to eat meat, so I've been trying not to subject him to any anti-meat tirades. (For the record, I don't eat anything with four legs and haven't for about 15 years. I used to not eat birds, either, but then I got pregnant and realized how little protein I ingested. It was just easier to start eating chicken again. Chickens are pretty stupid, right?) I don't want to freak him out by explaining to him in gory detail where his food comes from because I have trouble getting him to eat protein-rich foods as it is, but at the same time, I do have my opinions and I am his mother. The fact that I find it disgusting when someone digs into a massive, bloody steak is not easy for me to hide; it's such a visceral experience that the cringing is involuntary.

I ended up explaining to my son that we eat chicken and turkey meat, and that, yes, someone had to kill them in order for us to do so. I also told him this: "I don't believe in eating any animal with four legs, and so I don't cook it and we don't eat it. Except for bacon--which comes from pigs--because Daddy likes bacon."

"I love bacon, too!"

And, with that, the conversation was over. My son ran upstairs to feed chicken to our cat (who did, in fact, eat it out of his hand and made his day).