As some of you may have heard, I lost my maternal grandfather, Neil Martin, Wednesday morning. He had been very ill for much of the past two years, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected. But death is never easy to deal with, no matter the circumstances.
We didn’t have a cuddly Hallmark-card relationship, but we still had a bond. I’m the oldest grandchild, and he and I connected in surprising ways.
My grandfather was a big-time foodie, a wine connoisseur and an excellent home cook. Many of my memories of him are food-related. Visiting his Worcester home nearly always meant kitchen time. I distinctly remember making ice cream, boiling sugar for caramel and tossing around pizza dough with him and his wife, Carol, my step-grandmother. Meals at their house were always something else. Big holiday dinners usually included some gourmet appetizers and a huge roast. He owned plenty of cookbooks and saved dozens of back issues of Gourmet magazine.
He and Carol had a house in Spruce Head, Maine, outside of Rockland. It’s a beautiful, sprawling property with stunning water views from the front porch. We spent many summer vacations there. It was where I ate my first lobster, at age eight. Life changed with that first bite.
I like to think my newfound shellfish obsession warmed his heart. After that summer, he tended to steer me toward seafood at holiday meals and special-occasion dinners, and he always made sure I had plenty of helpings of his killer seafood Newburg recipe.
I started Fun With Carbs and my freelance food writing career around the time his health really started to slide. But to his credit, he really kept up with my blog and always asked about my latest articles and projects. He was also a big current events buff, so I think he liked the fact that I’d gone into journalism.
My last meal with him was Thanksgiving. We had dinner at Maxwell Silverman’s, a busy restaurant in Worcester. He and Carol were having wine; his red, hers white. (No one else in my family really drinks wine.)
I asked him how he liked his glass of Cabernet. He made a face. “It tastes like it just came out of the icebox,” he said.”Try it.”
I immediately assumed it was a typical petty complaint. But after one sip, I realized he was exactly right – the wine had likely been stored in the fridge. “You’re right, Grandpa,” I said. “That is so wrong.”
He smiled. He knew I got it.
Rest in peace, Grandpa Neil. Thank you for helping me become a foodie.
Leeanne Griffin is a freelance writer and food enthusiast.
