“I’ll have five sixty-fourths, please.”

Opa cut into the apple, first in half, then sliced that half to make a quarter, then an eighth, and finally a sixteenth that he handed to me. “How much more apple do you need?” he asked.

I bit off the very corner of an extra piece then put the whole 16th in my mouth. “No more!” I said, exposing the mashed up fruit.

“Hutso!1” Then he gave me the rest of the pieces adding up to a half, sans pits, which he pried open and ate himself.

We always have an apple after breakfast.

—

Oma had made dinner. I don’t recall exactly what food it was; all I know is that it must not have been very healthy, or we wouldn’t be having fruit forced on us for dessert. In Holland, where butter goes with everything, and you eat toast with chocolate flakes for breakfast, here we sat—the family adults pleased that their new don’t-gain-weight-over-Christmas plan was working, the four children sitting glumly at their end of the table with rug-protecting plastic crunching underfoot.

From the kitchen we heard a rumbling, Het fer Dumme!—the classic Dutch exclamation used to mean all kinds of things (for instance, seeing a dead raccoon on the side of the road elicits one, as does a stubbed toe). Opa poked his head around the door and handed the plates of pineapple to Oma, before ducking back into the kitchen. On each plate was a fleshy yellow ring. I poked mine dramatically, complete with suspicious, squinty eyes and a scrunched-up nose. As the edge lifted, I was horrified to find that the bottom of my pineapple ring was tinted pink. I shrieked, and Opa came out with a dishtowel around his hand upon which was spreading a much more vibrant color: red. The adults didn’t know what to do — keep eating the bitter-tainted, blood-tinted pineapple? Look around for pieces that were not contaminated? There was a general feeling of “must-eat-what-was-prepared-for-us,” but I, at six years old, promptly wept. Opa was angrily apologetic; why were so many people in one room upset? After all, he’d only sliced the tip of his finger, he’s a tough guy, and he’d rinsed the blood off most of the pineapple.

He and Oma worked so hard to keep us happy.

—

Recently Oma has been making only very healthy food, and we always have real dessert. We rarely have (only) fruit—except for Aunty Ellen who won’t eat the same food as the rest of us and eats such healthy food that it stinks up the whole house. Now and then, though, she will have a bit of wine for dinner. Because Opa chose it. We are having the wine he bought the year I was born (as he did for all the grandchildren), and at seventeen I have my own glass. But this is the first year Opa doesn’t enjoy it. In fact, he can’t enjoy much of anything.

He sits on the couch with his special plastic pillow, paid for by Holland’s superior healthcare coverage. He watches us eat, idly pretending to look at television listings. It is the month where everything tastes different. Opa’s taste buds are mangled by chemotherapy pills, mine by the dry coating of the tongue when you’re trying not to cry. I am the oldest child and the youngest adult, and it somehow manages to always be me that starts the whole family crying into their pea soup.

Only Oma’s classics are made from scratch anymore—pea soup, chicken curry, goulash, salmon-mascarpone lasagna. Everything else has pieces of prepared mix in them, the salad is pre-chopped, vegetables are from the freezer, tomato sauce from a jar. Spices are pre-mixed, we have powder-made pudding and we have ordered junk food twice. The wurst and cheese are spared though; in typical Dutch fashion Oma visits both the butcher and cheese shop once a week. The rest of her time is taken caring for Opa and the rest of our family—no matter how hard we try to take care of her in return.

—

I sit in bed with Opa in the morning, after Oma has gotten up but before the rest of the house wakes from their jet-lagged sleep. Sometimes I go back to sleep, or read, or talk to Opa. Oma brings us breakfast but I’m not really very hungry so I have the same breakfast as Opa: Toast (though mine with chocolate on it of course), sometimes cheese and an apple, and tea and orange juice (though Opa’s is with fourteen different pills and a morphine patch on the side).

Suddenly one morning, he makes a retching sound, and struggles to sit up — the newly electric bed does it for him. “Get out!” There is a retching noise as I run from the room to get Oma who brings a bucket. I stand outside, and when Oma opens the door to come out I can see Opa crying. Oma shuts the door behind her and whispers, “Opa never wants you to see him like this. He wants you to remember him as strong.” I turn and run to the bathroom, and kneeling in front of the toilet, I inadvertently follow Opa’s example in my upset.

—

I am back in Holland for the funeral, the only grandchild of four. The house feels empty, and so does the kitchen. The fridge is full, of course—people bring food and condolences—but the food doesn’t taste like home. There’s love in it, sure, but we want to make our own food. It’s something to do; it’s a long process. What are we going to do all day otherwise? Edit our eulogies? Oma and my mother have translated Oma’s into English for me; the whole funeral will be in Dutch except for when I speak.

My uncle and aunt, however, are working on theirs until the very last second, and all we have time to do before rushing out the door in our most colorful clothes is run them through Google Translate. Opa has asked that people donate to a charity for girls to get schooling in Kenya instead of bringing flowers. The funeral home is packed; people are standing, even trailing out the door. But I get a front row seat.

It’s a beautiful service. It is familial; it recalls the most important times. My uncle goes up to speak. I pull out his translated copy as quietly as possible, and begin to read along as he speaks. “Mein papa…” But the translation is wrong. Every time he says “my father” in Dutch, it reads “to porridge.” A mushy globby mess of homey smells and…my Opa? I snort, I giggle, I begin to cry (yet again). I poke my mother and Oma, who sit on either side of me, and they begin to laugh too.

I tell my uncle about it as we hold each other (so as not to slip on the ice, of course) walking back to the car. Porridge, porridge, porridge! It’s now a word of strength for our family, this food we never eat, in fact a food no one really likes (except Aunty Ellen). My fondest memories have common threads: Oma, Opa, and food. Snickers mean nothing to me, but with any chocolate bonbon (the customary pre-tooth-brushing snack), I am reminded of our time together. We knew it was over when Opa could no longer bear the smell of wine or chocolate. When together, we had breakfast time, then coffee time, then lunch, then teatime, then beer and chips time, then dinner, then dessert, then coffee time again!

Oma is cooking from scratch now—except when the premade things actually taste better! She sends me recipes every so often. I don’t do apple-fractions anymore, but I now love pineapple. I always eat dessert. I plan to try my birthday wine each year (Opa bought fourteen bottles the year I was born) to see if it ever tastes better to me.

I keep my Opa with me.