Growing up, I viewed my grandmother as my best friend. Now, years after her death, the lessons she taught me still guide my life.
From the age of 6 until 12, I spent every weekend with my grandmother at their apartment in Brooklyn.
At the time, my dad was living in Mexico and my mom was dealing with personal issues, so Grandma Mary tried to see me and my two younger sisters as much as possible.
Looking back, I now know that the lessons I learned during these special weekends have done so much to shape the person I’ve become.Our weekends were special
I fondly remember my grandparents picking us up every Saturday in their yellow Chevrolet Impala, Frank Sinatra singing on the radio, and the sounds of the East River lapping against the shore as we drove from Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge. Our first stop was always the 86th Street Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop, run by my which was run by my uncle at the time.
Throughout the weekend I tasted Grandma’s love in her homemade blintzes, kosher chicken, and the chocolate pudding that served proudly served in glass, leaf-shaped cups.
