Imagine a small stone house on a quiet circular street winding down to the shore of Long Island Sound. A rusty combination lock guards the boathouse between street and shore. Inside, dusty life jackets, deflated rafts, and a cracked Ping-Pong table wait for the neighborhood to turn young again, as it was when the current residents were in their thirties and forties instead of their seventies and eighties, and their children splashed and sailed every day of the summer instead of making a twice-yearly pilgrimage by rental car from JFK and LaGuardia.
It would make a pleasant after-dinner stroll by foot, cane, walker, or wheelchair, the couple-hundred-yard amble to the water and back from the Japanese rock garden that occupies the stone house’s front yard. But there are no after-dinner strolls, because there is no after dinner.
A sprightly figure, perhaps five feet tall and 100 pounds, paces the first floor, casting stooped shadows from the glow of paper lanterns in the kitchen and dining room. Once we are seated around the long wooden dining table, we are no longer sovereign citizens, “created equal,” of the United States of America, but vassals in a feudal kingdom ruled by an octogenarian empress.
“Sylvia, come in and sit down,” Uncle Phil begs. He is the baby of the family, a child of 79. They’ve been having this conversation for decades. But it’s no use. The only people she takes orders from are her grandchildren, and we say nothing. True, she might choose to indulge Phil’s request and enter briefly. Under no circumstances, however, will she sit down.
“Just one more minute,” says Grandma. “Let me finish up the appetizers.” Phil sinks back in his seat, silenced for what will be at least another hour. The empress has spoken.
Her rule is a curious one, based not on the command that others serve her, but that she serve them. Yet this makes her no less mighty than Alexander the Great or Napoleon, conquerors who captured vast areas of human settlement. She holds sway over her subjects’ time.
My last breakfast at Grandma’s was poached quail eggs on a toasted English muffin topped with melted cheese made from the milk of almonds. My last dessert was hastily fried bananas. She scuttled back and forth between kitchen and dining room, adding secondary ingredients—a dash of cinnamon here, a pinch of brown sugar there—as I ate. While extremely pleasing to the palate, this obstinate attention to detail can frustrate those who like their palate pleased within three hours of putting napkin to lap. At dinner, quantity joins quality to administer the coup de grâce. Grandma simply keeps cooking until sated guests leave, or, almost as often, fall asleep.
Josh and I arrived at her invitation one spring evening around six. We were young, healthy men-about-town, with strong handshakes and easy smiles for all who greeted us. Our minds were sharp, our spirits high. We were confident we could handle Grandma’s food without sacrificing our freedom. We were fools.
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