My grandfather was the quintessential patriarch of the family. The man who shaped my father and family into the people they are today: good, loyal and loving. Even though we weren't close in distance, his principles trickled down. Like his humor and quick wit, we were lucky to have him as our framework.
One of my favorite memories of him, besides his smile, were his breakfasts. It seemed somehow "Canadian" that my grandparents had toast for breakfast every day. My grandpa took his with butter and marmalade with a side of black coffee. Maybe he didn't even eat it regularly and it just reminded me of times he visited (and we made sure to have it on hand). Regardless, that citrus preserve will always symbolize a memory of him in my life.
Food seems maybe insignificant when on the subject of death, but food is forever entangled in our sense of home. It feeds us emotionally and physically when we're either hungry or broken (or both). Flavors can linger in our stomachs, and even longer in our hearts. And as it happens when a loved one passes, there is not much to do but to reflect and remember. So for him, I eat marmalade, so he can linger a little longer with me.
