Love in Small Pieces

Born at the beginning of the past century from a borderline poor family, she did not have too much education. Maybe just the elementary degree. Enough to read and write. Like so many born in that situation, her working life started early, helping the family to sell anything they could, fruits, food, and services. When she was younger, she spent her time over and old, new at that time, sewing machine, making dresses, blouses, and slacks for those who could pay for them.

Married to a communist woodworker made artisan at old age, they build a family together. He produced some of the most beautiful, well-ornated pieces from his woodshop. A contrast to his personality, usually brittle and absent. Not that he was not present, but one could see that his soul was not there. Life was not easy for him, for both. 

On the back of their suburban home, his workshop was ornated by a large Jacaranda tree, with a massive trunk and an ocean of tiny leaves. It was ironic that the once woodworker, now artisan, would have such care for a tree. Maybe at old age, he could see more value for the tree than for its lumber. Some fruit trees and a tool shed completed the scenery in the backyard. At the shop, he used to make tables, trays, jewelry boxes, and coasters to be sold at the town's farmer's market once a week.

They had two kids, one boy, and one girl, and despite all challenges, they both got their college degrees and well-established professions. The girl became a lawyer, a nurse, and later a teacher at med school. I never knew much about the boy's job; he was an accountant or engineer of some sort.

She was a very devoted Catholic who went to church every Sunday, that pray every morning and every night, and didn't eat red meat on Good Friday. Cristian scenes and flower paints decorate some of the walls at the house. That and a framed newspaper page from when they wrote about his woodwork. She used to keep a bible on her nightstand and always had a candle lighted up in front of the image of a Saint. Usually, Saint Francis and the Virgin Mary.

Like most that grew up in hardship, she was not big. Her wardrobe was simple, far less pretty than the clothes she once made. She wore white hair, thicker glass, too heavy for her appearance, and an apron on most days. The suburban house was big, at least bigger than some of the neighbor's places, but you would always find her in the kitchen.

Although she could read, you would never see her with a magazine or book in hand. Reading was for the bible and recipes. Oh, the recipes. One would have a banquet every day of the week, but on Sundays, if you're lucky to be around, you would get the royal treatment.

The town's farmer market was also on Sundays, so lunch was usually a little later than usual, but the wait was worthwhile. It doesn't matter what one likes. She would have it at the table. Homemade rotisserie chicken, spaghetti marinara, lasagna, rolled meatloaf, rice, beans, chicken pie, you name it. All made fresh that morning. It has been years since the last one of those, and I can't still figure out how that small older woman could pull it off.

She was shy, or the life of subservience made her shy. Usually, she was quiet; you would not hear her voice unless when asking if you would like something or when greeting you at the door, except at Sunday's extravaganza. She would bring dish after dish to the table, describing the plate and ingredients … as if one had to be convinced to eat. I don't remember if we had to pray before eating; I guess I never did. I know I had some privileges in that household.

After eating for hours, she would stand up to pick up the dishes – nobody was allowed to help – she didn't want help. She grabbed each plate gently but quickly, unless, of course, you still had food on your plate. Even after eating more than humanly possible, if one had leftovers on the plate, it was sure to hear she ask. So, you didn't like my food? The room would fill with laughter. That was her moment.

At that point, we were only halfway through lunch. Now with more space at the table and no viable space in our tummies, desserts were served. Like the main course, she didn't make only one dessert option. A barrage of sugar dreams started to rain from heaven over the table; flam, cake, multi-color jello, fruit salad, ice cream, and some fruit preserves. Mostly also made that day.

But one dessert was exceptional. At that time, globalization was not a thing, so we only had access to the season's fruits. So, when it was pineapple season, she would make one of the most challenging, most dangerous desserts to make. Amor em Pedaços or Pieces of Love. A tray of a special puffy pastry dough filled with a confit of pineapple and coconut, covered in icing sugar and cinnamon, served in small inch-size pieces. How hard is it to make it? Well, for someone that can cook a 10-course meal in the morning, that was a two-day job. To make an entire batch of confit, you had to get the sugar, coconut, and pineapple mixture to a boiling – lava-like temperature. You would be scarred for life by one tiny bubble on your skin. Nobody could be in the kitchen when she was making that. If someone had to get burned, that would be her only.

I spent years going to her house on Sundays. Approximately twelve years. Now she was frail and forgetful; dementia was settling in. She could no longer cook a 10-course meal, but she was still making jello. One could no longer hear her voice but on rare occasions.

I moved away. A couple of years later, her husband passed, and she moved too. She got a new house without the Jacaranda, fruit trees, or candle smell. Dough Saint Francis's picture was still there.

The last time I saw her she was in a big armchair; I don't know if she recognized me, but she was happy, with a big doll in her arms. Alzheimer's took my grandma away a couple of years before she passed.

But I still remember all her pieces of love.