Grandma could die....

and now I know that I would be okay. I'm not saying that she should die... I'd still be ridiculously sad, but now I feel like I could continue on without throwing myself into the hole with her in a very "Hunchback of Notre Dame"-esque kind of scene.

Throughout my life, there has not been any food more comforting to me than Grandma soup. I looked forward to it at Grandma parties, yelled at my wife when she was making us late to an occasion to eat it, and always asked Grandma to make me some for my birthday instead of the standard chocolate pie that she would make for other grandkids. I love me that soup.

I've lived the last few years (ever since I began to understand the reality of death) in fear that something would happen to her and that I would never get the soup again. My mom has always tried to make it.... but let's be honest... my mom's is ummm... how do I say this.... ummmm.... not good. It's just not very good.

Grandma has given me the recipe several times... I asked for it probably 10 times on my mission. And I've tried. I've tried hard to create the Grandma soup, and each time after tasting and not being filled with comfort and love, I've went back and begged for the secret again. She's related it to me again and again. Each time I've picked up some new hint... but it's still never been perfect. I knew that Grandma wouldn't be keeping anything from me... so I had resigned myself to the fact that the secret ingredient must just be the Grandma love that she put into it; therefore, I would never be able to recreate it.

But I made some last night for my lunch today. I have to be honest, going into the cafeteria, I was dreading the fact that I had even attempted it again. Last week I had brocoli soup from the cafeteria, and it was honestly the worst food experience of my life. At least the worst experience that wasn't my stomach's fault. It tasted so revolting, it gave me heartburn, and I spent the next day and a half trying to vomit it up completely. As I heated my soup up, the flashbacks to the week before were horrific. I couldn't handle eating subpar brocoli soup in this cafeteria again.

But I ate... and I was in heaven. I have finally succeeded in making the soup. As I ate, I transported myself to Grandma's kitchen. It was so comforting, so wonderful. There are those who don't understand the ecstasy that is eating, aka my old roommate, and I feel sorry for them.

Then because joy loves company, I went into the cafeteria and got me some frozen yogurt--chocolate-vanilla twist with m&m's, butterfinger crumbles, almond slivers, pecans, and caramel sauce--and went and sat close by the cute piano player man who coated my ice cream with show tunes.

I am now comforted to know that when Grandma has gone to that happier place--because she will be sainted... that's not really in question, I will be able to make the soup for the family gatherings and for my birthday and for any other time I want joy. And then if and when I get to that happier place, I won't always be bugging Grandma for soup. But I'll still ask for it from time to time, because, honestly, there's nothing better than Grandma lovin'.