When I step out of the car into the humid New England air I know Grammy will be happy to see us. Her old house on Saville Street in Cambridge never changes. The old white house is the same one my dad grew up in. As we walk through the door her thick Irish accent greets us.
“Oh, Peter you’re so big!” she hugs us as we bring our luggage into the house. “Oh, you must be starving, you’ve been on a plane all night.” We took the red eye into Boston and I was quite hungry. She quickly lit a match to fire up the old stove. She had cooked on the same stove for her five children. The stove must be over fifty years old. She moves slowly but deliberately.
“Here have some coffee cake to hold ya over until I finish fixing you breakfast.”
I always forget how much I love her accent.
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