The Way You Look Tonight

Someday when I’m awfully low, 

when the world is cold,

I will feel a glow just thinking of you…

My Grandma, 2 of my cousins, my big baby brother & me, 1982.

These days, I feel so damn ordinary. With William off the market, reality has hit that I will probably not marry into the royal family. At age 31, I have come to the conclusion, that I won’t be a millionaire when I’m 30.  And with a B average in high school chemistry, I concede in not being the recipient of the Nobel Prize in Medicine by discovering the cure to Cancer.  All of these revelations made me think about how I don’t feel special anymore. Sure, I have a whole cast of family and friends that love me, but it doesn't make me FEEL special.

My daddy’s mama always had a flair for turning everything she touched into something special. An everyday lunch, just a regular peanut butter and jelly sandwich was special if she served it at her table. First of all, it was a “Peanut Butta’ and Peach Preserve Sandwich”. Then of course the crusts would be cut-off, the sandwich cut criss-cross, served on a tray with gold-rimmed china, a real cloth napkin, homemade thick-cut potato chips, a dollop of ketchup, and juice served in a wine glass. Lunch fit for a princess! And when I say princess, I don't mean the loosely used term of this generation, every little girl is called Princess these days. This was different. She didn’t say, Oh you’re Grandma’s Princess. She made me feel it.

One summer, my brothers, my mama, and I came up to stay with her at the family beach house. The first day we arrived she sat my brother’s and I down and made a list of rules for us. Most of the rules were typical beach- kid rules, (example: don’t go to the beach without an adult) but I remember the last rule she wrote down, was , “Leave each room just like you would if President George H. Bush were coming for a visit.” Right now, that prospect isn’t quite as glamorous as it sounded to nine year old ears.  But when she said it as she wrote it, she made me BELIEVE that there was a possibility of President George H. Bush just happening upon our house and stopping for a visit, just like we were old family friends. All summer long I picked up my toys and clothes out of the bathroom just in case the President decided to come for a visit.

That same trip she bought some acrylic paint and some paper plates. One rainy afternoon, we painted scenes all afternoon on those paper-plates. That night after we went to bed she hung the paper plates all over the house with little brass thumb tacks. She woke us up the next morning saying we were going to an art gallery. Before breakfast, she took us all around the house, touring our little art gallery in our pajamas. She’d walk up to one of our paintings and say, “Oh, the Artist’ Elizabeth painted this masterpiece. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

My Grandma always knew how to put the extra touch of pizazz on everything. When she cooked it was always, over the top. One of her signature dishes was Hungarian Goulash.  I will readily admit that the kids in my family weren’t the pickiest of eaters back then, but Goulash? If you aren’t familiar with the dish, google it… it’s not the most visually appealing meal. However, while she was preparing this alleged Hungarian Goulash, she would regale everyone that listened of the little old woman that passed this recipe along to her. I remember having the vivid image of a woman wearing a scarf over her head walking to the river every day to get water. I pictured a woman that made her own pottery and slaved over a hot fire cooking this Hungarian Goulash for her family of ten.  She painted such an elaborate story, by the time dinner was ready, the kids at the table were invested in her little story. We’d all gobble the goulash feeling pretty special that we didn’t have to walk down to the river to take baths and wash clothes every day. We wouldn’t even notice the dinner in front of us looked a whole lot like a regurgitated hot mess.


It was always a grand adventure of the mind when Grandma was around. Whether the adventure was new place we’d never been, a push to do something we’d never been exposed to, or an ordinary meal spiced with sassy stories and immersed in culture, she weaved a web of colorful memories that still visit almost 20 years after her death.

The other night, I was making pink mashed potatoes for a Pinkalicious Slumber Party for one of the stars in my sky. I realized how Grandma must have felt while she was the mistress of marvelous. As I put a drop of juice from the Pinkatastic Papaya Tree (red food color) in the “Master Taters” (mashed potatoes), I watched a pair of eyes sparkle and dance with amazement… and I felt oh so damn special.