Until recently.
We picked up some Fuzzy Navel jam at the Civil War and Rail museum gift shop. And it's pretty darn good. Each time we've had it on biscuits or toast with dinner, I've compulsively told my oldest boy the story of how much my Grandmother Drake loved orange marmalade. She was addicted to it. When I was really little, it was a big deal when people would return from Florida and bring her a jar or two. You couldn't get that stuff up north - back in the day. I tell it like it's important. I don't really know why, I just feel the need to tell it so I do.
This morning, on Memorial Day, I sat down at my computer to read the news and have a little toast before heading out to a friends cookout. After I buttered my toast - I looked into the fridge and saw the little jar waiting for me. So I put some on my toast and walked over here to the shiny metal box of diversions to read.
Looking at my toast, spread thin with butter and orangey/peachy shmear - I remembered my grandmother's breakfast toast at her formica table. There would also be a hunk of fresh honeycomb in a square ceramic pedestal dish - made specially FOR the honeycomb from her neighbors beehives. Sometimes, you'd find a squished bee in it. Your legs would stick to her vinyl covered chairs in the summer.
Eating breakfast at my grandma's house is one of the best memories of my childhood.
I guess I do know why I tell the marmalade story after all.
*I leave you with a picture of my twins at the cookout we went to today.
Yes, that tub is full of water.
Yes, Baby Birth of Cool HAS his shoes and socks on.
Good times.
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