I regret I didn’t get to know my maternal grandmother better (Oma). An ocean separated us and she died almost 20 years ago. I do know this: Oma was a simple woman, unlike her fashion-loving, sassy daughter (momma above)! Her demeanor was sweet and she was a bit quiet but she loved her family fiercely. She found joy in her garden and would spend all day outside up to her knees in the strawberry patch that produced the smallest, yet most glorious tasting berries I’ve ever eaten.

One of the things I remember fondly is that Oma loved a good, roasted chicken. Yes, chicken. You could get all parts of a pig in Germany in the mid 1990s, but to get a roasted chicken? That was a rare treat. In her later years when she no longer talked because of “old age*” her eyes would light up when you brought her roasted chicken from the pre-food truck vendor outside of Aldi’s in Waldbröl, Germany.  

(*Yes, that was an official diagnosis. Back in the day, it was acceptable to say that a disease state was simply due to aging, and it was rude to suggest that someone had dementia.)

I have a confession to make: Among my friends, I am not the foodie. I feel less than sophisticated when I admit that what I really want is a simple meal more than any of the latest trends. I have a ton of “tummy issues” and there are good reasons for why I like what I do beyond simply having an unadventurous palate. I swore off pork and beef years ago, and dear God, please don’t put a piece of organ meat any where near me! The most exotic I get is sushi but even that idea was put to the test when I went to Tokyo a few of years ago for work. We don’t do sushi like they do sushi.

Today I treated myself to a lovely, simple, roasted chicken and thought how pleased my Oma would be at the sight of it. It was delicious and uncomplicated and I didn’t care what it said about my taste. And just for a moment the woman that I longed to know better, felt like a part of me.