World's Best Grandpa

“Hokis, it’s ready,” my grandpa called from the kitchen. 

"Coming!" I shouted back. The word “hokis” means “my soul” and is a term of endearment used by Armenians when speaking to loved ones—similar to the English word “sweetie.”

I closed my book and walked downstairs to the kitchen where my grandpa had prepared my favorite Sadaf tea. 

Those cozy Saturdays had become a routine for us. My mom and grandma were at their weekly pottery class and my grandpa and I were at his house keeping each other company until their return. Every week was the same: I arrived at my grandparents’ house bright and early at 8:37 sharp, my mom immediately got frustrated with my grandma for not being ready, but they always somehow managed to leave on time at 8:45. Once they were gone and the house was quiet again, I would run upstairs and read my book, usually Harry Potter, until my grandpa called me from downstairs signaling that our teas were ready. We would sit together and watch “The Price is Right” while quietly sipping our tea, finishing every last drop –or in my grandpa’s case, until his got cold and he had to reheat it. Subsequently, we made houses of cards on his dining room table, always trying to make the next house taller than the last. We spent the last hour together working on my Armenian. He wrote out sentences in his broken English, and I had to translate them into Armenian. If we finished early, we just chatted about our lives: my exciting but often dramatic sixth-grade adventures and his updates on the latest news in the paper.

On this particular Saturday, it was no different. I had just finished the fourth chapter of Order of the Phoenix, still in shock about Percy’s betrayal, and eager to continue reading. When I made it to the kitchen I noticed only one mug on the counter, not the usual two. My mug had a floral pattern, pastel pink and blue daisies decorating the exterior with a soft purple interior. His was a simple white mug with "World’s Best Grandpa" written in bold black letters, a Christmas gift I had given him last year. His mug was missing. 

“What happened to your tea?” I asked, confused.

In his usual calm tone, he replied, “Only one Sadaf left, I make for you.”

“Ababa,” the nickname I gave him when I was a baby that somehow stuck, “you can’t let me have this tea by myself, what will you drink?”

“Water is okay, hokis, no big deal.” I, however, thought it was a massive deal. I couldn’t drink my tea knowing my grandpa had sacrificed the last one for me. 

“What if I give you half of mine?” I suggested.

“No no, you like drinking the whole cup,” he replies.

“Let’s just go get another box. Isn’t the store only 10 minutes away?” 

At first, he refused, insisting there was no need, but thankfully, I inherited my mom's persistence, so I didn’t give up easily.

Next thing I knew we were in his car on the way to our local Armenian convenience store. During the drive, he went over the rules of the road—a little habit he has with anyone under the age of 18 in his car. I was 11 but still intently listened, knowing his lectures were what made Mom and her brothers such efficient drivers. He pulled his gray Honda Accord into the parking spot directly in front of the store. We got out and hand in hand strolled in.

RIIING, the bell chimed loudly as we opened the door. “Pari Lous,” the kind-faced elderly lady called out from behind the cash register. “Pari Lous,” we responded. After all, it was a good morning. 

Armenian convenience stores are small but somehow have everything and anything. They are lined from ceiling to floor with every seed and nut known to man, at least 20 different types of bread, pasta, produce, ten types of freshly sliced cheese, deli meat, spices, tahn—an Armenian yogurt drink (it tastes better than it sounds)—and so much more. However, the items I was most excited about, and perhaps my ulterior motive for coming, were the candies. The selection was endless: Armenian candy, Russian candy, KitKats, Twix, M&Ms, Rip Rolls, Push Pops—every child’s dream. I had a system though; I had to wait until my grandpa was done shopping and was at the register about to pay, for me to ask for the candy. The pressure of the cash register lady watching him would make him feel obligated to say yes or he would seem like a bad grandpa.

Everything went according to plan. Together, we went up and down the aisles, searching for the tea we came to buy while simultaneously picking up groceries he probably didn’t need: a bag of vermicelli, bulgur (wheat rice), a few cans of chickpeas, and some pumpkin seeds. We reached the tea section in the fifth and last aisle and chose which box of Sadaf we wanted. I didn’t care for the different Sadaf flavors and chose the one I was most familiar with, the red one. After grabbing a few more unnecessary items on the way to the register, we finally arrived, setting my master plan into motion. As my grandpa was unloading our shopping cart, I looked up at him with my “puppy-dog eyes” and sweetly asked, “Ababa, can I please get candy?” He knew my mom didn’t like it when I ate candy, especially not at 9:30 in the morning, but he also knew he could never say no to me, so with a defeated tone, he replied, “Okay, hokis, but only one.” Pretending like I wasn’t expecting him to say yes, I acted surprised, then wore my biggest grin and thanked him. 

I quickly raced to the candy section, preparing to make the biggest decision of my life: which candy should I get? I stood in front of the extensive array of treats. M&Ms? No. Reese’s Cups? Had them yesterday. Nothing seemed right. Until I saw it. Through the plastic wrap, three individual chocolates, each wrapped elegantly in gold tin foil, glistened under the old overhead lights. Ferrero Rocher. I had seen this chocolate at every family gathering. We had received it as gifts, we had given it as gifts, but I had never eaten it. 

I grabbed a pack and brought it to my grandpa, who was patiently waiting at the register, chatting with the elderly lady about her grandson’s baseball team. As I approached them, I set the chocolates on the counter and nodded to my grandpa, silently confirming my choice. 

We hopped into the car, my grandpa making sure I put on my seatbelt because “Ninety percent of people get hurt in car accidents because they don’t wear a seatbelt.” I knew that was an exaggerated statistic, but I still followed his directions, nonetheless. 

As we began driving, he glanced down at me in the passenger seat, intensely eyeing the chocolates in my hand. As if reading my mind, he said, “One chocolate now, the rest you eat later.” 

“Okay, Ababa,” I agreed enthusiastically. I not-so-gently ripped open the plastic wrap, grabbed one of the three golden chocolates, and carefully unwrapped it. Beneath the foil was a truly glorious sight: a perfectly round sphere, its shell coated in milk chocolate speckled with finely chopped hazelnuts, as I read on the wrapper. I held it up to my mouth and took a slow, deliberate bite, relishing the flavor as it coated my taste buds. The taste was rich and indulgent—nutty, chocolatey, and sweet but not overwhelmingly so. It was, without a doubt, one of the best things I had ever eaten.

“How does it taste, hokis?” my grandpa asked.

“It’s SOOO GOOOOD,” I began, “it’s now my new favorite. . .”. I paused. Something wasn’t right. As good as the flavor was, my mouth started to feel tingly and numb and itchy. I tried to speak again but no words came out. Sensing something was wrong, my grandpa immediately looked over and asked if I was okay. I tried to respond but my breathing was shallow and I was struggling to get air in. I violently shook my head “no”, hoping he understood. He did. He pushed down on the gas pedal, speeding more than he probably should have. It felt like someone was squeezing their hands around my throat. He got us to the hospital in about 10 minutes - which felt more like an eternity. Without missing a beat, my grandpa grabbed my hand and dragged me to the emergency room where he directly approached the lady at the front desk.

“ALLERGY! ALLERGY! HELP NOW! " my grandpa yelled. She rushed to get a doctor. I was terrified and squeezed his hand. As if on cue, a doctor arrived and whisked us into one of the rooms and immediately stabbed me with a needle and assured me I was going to start feeling better very soon. The helpful nurses closely monitored my vitals, and after a short while, I was finally able to comfortably breathe again and the tingling in my mouth began to dissipate. Once the doctors were certain I was well enough to leave, they handed my grandpa the discharge papers, and we were on our way.

On the ride home, I reflected on the adventurous day my grandpa and I had, realizing I had gained a deeper understanding of him. He was calm and collected but could be firm when necessary. I remember how my grandpa cared deeply for his family, looked after us, and loved us the best way he knew how. His love for others was truly immeasurable. And to think this all began because of a lack of teabags.

We returned to his house, brought in all the groceries, and of course the tea, and began putting them away. Just as I was placing the final item, the Sadaf, into his tea drawer, the front door unlocked, and in walked my mom and grandma. 

My mom came and gave me a hug, “How was your day, hokis?”

“You have no idea,” I replied, glancing mischievously at my grandpa with a grin.

I learned two things that day: one, that I have a deadly hazelnut allergy, and two, that I have the world’s best grandpa.