Dear Grandma Bessie, (letter 2) Every time I think about you, I can see that bottle of Evening in Paris on the dresser. If I close my eyes and think of you, I can capture the scent. Sometimes I think my entire childhood was enveloped in that fragrance. Oh, you rarely actually used it. I think mostly you just liked having it there. But that never stopped anyone from buying you countless bottles for every occasion that came along. That beautiful blue bottle, with the gold embossed letters that promised wonderful times filled with romance. When you were in the kitchen or sitting at your sewing machine, making yet another quilt for someone, I would sneak into your room and open the bottle. I would breathe in the very heart and soul of Paris and dream I was there with some handsome fellow, most likely some music star or maybe a character from one of the shows we always watched. Dancing often to the rythm of the old Singer foot treddle, the timing was perfect you know. Regardless of who he was at the time, I was swept away for just a few moments to some glittery, fragrant place where there were no cares or troubles. Then I would hear you coming and hurry to put the lid back and set in right in the very spot I had found it. It was such a forbidden pleasure for me, knowing I was not allowed to touch it, much less take advantage of the lovely times it offered. Lovely times I would not understand until much later, as I was only ten years old. I remember one sunday when I was doing just that naughty thing. You were in the kitchen getting things ready because Uncle Lawrence was coming to make his famous spaghetti sauce..... why was it so good. Was he just a good cook? Or was it because the boys would come home and bring their wives and it was like Christmas. There was sillyness... and scoldings for stealing bites of whatever else was in store. Ann and I would get chased off to climb the crab apple tree and wait and wait. It was in those crab apple trees that we became secret agents. Miss Kiriakin and Miss Solo. We were the Girls from Uncle. Saving the world from some dark and mysterious threat, that we only learned in later life was the Cold War and the 'evil' Russia. Then the call would come: Dinner was ready... we more fell out than climbed out of that tree. There was never enough room for everyone at the table, and that being reserved for big people, we got to take our plates out and sit on the back porch. Then, after everyone else had finished their dinner, we got to have some of your chocolate cake. The most wonderful cake. But of course we all know that the cake wasn't the best part. It was that fudge icing. Ann and I would peel off layer by layer of the sweet candy, pouring milk over the rest. Oh life was sweet for a child with no cares and so much love. I have a little secret, that no one knows. When you died, everyone scoured that house looking for that recipe.... For many years they all tried and failed to reproduce that cake. They even ask me to tell them what I saw the hundreds of times I stood there at the counter watching you. Like a child could know... really. Grandma, you taught me well. I know that recipe so well that I can see it in the making. I have only made it once, just for myself. But for now, that will be our little secret. I'll write again soon. How it changed my life:this is the second journal letter, will post 1 and 3 and more to come... thanks for reading... aughra
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