(no subject)

Am re-watching Gross Pointe Blank whilst prepping ingredients for a Lime Pie.  I've had a funny few minutes reminiscing about my grandmother (on my mother's side) whilst chopping limes--was suddenly struck by memories of slicing limes with her in her tiny, cramped kitchen.  And then a memory of preparing a mango for her, when arthritis completely crippled her hands; slicing it up into thin slivers, arranging them on a platter, then carefully squeezing a juicy lime over the whole thing.  Each slice receiving extra verve and zing.  A bittersweet memory.  She died less than a year after that.

I suspect this is why I don't venture into Caribbean cooking very often.  I'd have to think about my mother, her mother, and then spend time wondering just what made them turn out the way they did.  Both have good qualities, but more often than not... they're complete bitches.  Will my limes go mouldy if I speak ill of the dead?  Best use them quickly....

Still.  The memory of sun-warmed limes fresh from the tree, a cramped kitchen, and a perfect pitcher of lemonade will stay with me for many years to come.