My maternal Grandmother had a way of eating that forced me to avert my eyes. She was an impeccably well-mannered woman but chewed her food like a camel unable to keep its mouth shut. This was not how we were instructed by our mother, her daughter. Keep your lips sealed tight like a Ziploc bag. Grandma didn’t seem to care that she ate with her mouth open, revealing the laborious process of mastication the inner workings of her mouth undertook.

She took great care to have her hair “done” weekly, tight little permed curls dippity-doo’ed, fluffed and teased into the perfect Lego-like hair helmet. I imagined her removing it nightly, popping it onto the bedpost and then snapping it back on in the morning, fresh and ready to greet the new day. Her grooming was meticulous, she even starched and ironed the family undergarments. At bath time she scrubbed our delicate plump toddler skin with washcloths like sandpaper, telling macabre stories about the scabies our mother contracted and the wire brush she took to her shins to release the critters. As a lover of birds she ranked her favorites by personal birdie hygiene, a dirty bird bottom would get it kicked off the list. Nuthatches good. Chickadees bad. The bird feeder was conveniently located near the picture window beside the kitchen table. We had a front row seat to play-by-play bird hygiene commentary over a breakfast bowl of Cheerios and milk.

Then the chewing thing. So distracting.

Her favorite homemade pie, coconut cream, was a thing of beauty, custardy goodness topped with an angelic light fluffy cream topping. But man, that was one of the worst things to watch her eat. I pitied the victim that sat next to her at the dinner table. My sisters and I noticed this but didn’t share with each other until we got older. Sometimes as little kids I guess we observe stuff and think, “Hey thats weird. That must be what all Grandmas do.”

When Kim and I became mothers, we looked forward to the yearly pilgrimage to Grandmas house. We’d bring our six children, her cherished great grandchildren. After a long day of kid wrangling, visits to extended family in the area, making the rounds, Kim and I were feeling especially punch drunk. As sisters, the three of us would often find ourselves in fits and bursts of uncontrollable laughter, snorting and crying. This was one of those moments.

Late that night, laying in the four-poster in the front bedroom, whispering, a few of the kids in porta cribs, we simultaneously revealed our long-time revulsion of her eating process. It was rare to find fault with her and we both hated doing it. There was something served that evening, probably macaroni salad, that triggered the discussion. We came up with an acronym to describe the types of food that would create the most horrifying dining experience. Coconut cream pie, egg salad, anything with mayonnaise, Waldorf Salad, things like that. These foods had what was termed, from that point forward, “extra smacky power” or ESP, and would require us to immediately look away as the first creamy forkfull reached her lips.

 

Recipe: coconut cream pie