Another story of my grandfather, Pop, and his inability to do anything in the kitchen beyond getting a drink.
I was probably 7 or 8 years old, maybe younger. And home from school for some bizarre reason. It was probably one of those random non-holidays the school decided to observe.
Pop and I were home alone, happily watching Westerns together, most likely it was Bonanza, or a John Wayne movie.
Pop looked over at me, and announced that he was hungry, asking if I was as well.
I was little, so of course I was hungry, especially if MY Pop was offering to get us some food.
So, over to the fridge he goes, to see what sort of delicious masterpiece his wife, my Bennie, had made for him.
Instead he finds a note on the fridge from her, explaining that she had been running late this morning, before her Bridge game, and that he was going to have to fend for himself.
He looks at the note, looks at the contents of the fridge, then looks up at me.
“Peanut butter and jam sandwiches it is.”
Pulling out the things needed to make our PB&J sandwiches, he set them on the counter, and proceded to make a mess out of every slice of bread he tried to smear peanut butter onto.
“Well the bread is wrong!” He declares, putting down the butter knife and glaring at the mess hes made.
Taking a deep breath I asked, “May I use the knife and give it a try?” He handed me the knife, handle first with a sigh.
Dipping the knife into the peanut butter I expertly smeared it across the bread, without tearing the slice.
“How did you do that?!” Pop proclaimed, handing me another slice. At 7or 8 years old, my tiny hands were able to accomplish a feat his work-harden hands were strangely inept at doing.
After that, it was declared that I was to always make his sandwiches if Bennie ever forgot to make his lunch for him.
But she never again forgot to make his lunch once she saw the state of her kitchen.
