"D AD, how do you even have room to keep eating?" I dug my toes into my grandparents' red shag carpet in the dining room in the mid-1980s. The food surrounded my dad, but dinner was just finishing.

My father glanced at me over the gold rim of his glasses. They were dirty, and I saw little bits of mashed potatoes caught in his mustache. He grinned and piled more chicken and coleslaw onto his plate. Dad knew two things. 1) He couldn't have dessert until the table was completely cleared.

Grandpa and Grandma stared at Dad as Grandma walked out of the kitchen to see the scene. She smiled. "Good, Bobby?"

Dad shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah, Mom. It's really good."

When Dad finished every bite of all the dishes, he raised his hand and shouted, "Mom, I don't know how you do it."

She beamed and asked, "Is there any more room?"

"Room? Is there room!" They laughed at each other.

Grandpa refused to wait any longer. He stood up in a flash with a plastic crumb catcher and was cleaning the table before Dad could move. I stood next to Grandpa, waiting to use the device, helping in any way I could to move Dad's food show - extravaganza.

"Ruby - damn it. You get your pie." Grandma glared at Grandpa.

"Mom. Did you say there was pie?" Dad raised his eyebrows over his green eyes and then laughed.

Grandpa picked at his teeth with a toothpick that had lodged in the corner of his mouth when dinner was over for us - 30 minutes ago. There was nothing to do but wait for the pie to arrive at the table.

It took 10 minutes to finally arrive. The meringue had a slight tan covering the yellow center, and beads of sweat sat atop the white peaks. Grandma mentioned the work she took to finish the flaky crust made with Crisco, but thinking about the grated tart shell in the lemon middle made me drool.

Grandma cut the first piece and handed it to Grandpa. Dad got the next piece. It looked like two regular-sized pieces. And finally, my piece arrived on a small plate. I stared at the simplicity.

"Are you going to eat it or just stare at it?" Grandma asked me a little disappointed.

I set my fork aside and took a small bite of the melted meringue in my mouth. Even if my stomach hurt in a few minutes, I thought it was worth it. The airy cloud tasted as if it had a little hint of caramel on top. When I picked a piece of the flaky crust, I used my fingers to push a small flake of crust onto my fork and then brought the fork to my mouth. By the time I was done, only the goodness of lemon remained. With the first small forkful, I inhaled the vibrant citrus scent and prepared my mouth for the tang that followed. This was perfect.

When I was finished, I looked up. I could hear Grandpa watching in the next room for 60 minutes. However, Dad was still savoring his piece, while Grandma radiated the glow of pride in her accomplishment.

Decades ago, I had given up baked goods, including lemon meringue pie, by the early 2010s. My grandmother had long since passed, but I had only encountered lemon meringue pie at diners and bakeries. So, it wasn't that hard not to eat it. And I thought about my grandparents, but I still didn't know how to handle events since childhood.

But one day, while touring the NYC Transit Museum, I saw an old advertisement for my T-Fine lemon-flavored pie filling on a vintage train. It showed lemon meringue pie, and I was transported back to Grandma's kitchen.

I could see myself at around 10 years old, just enough to carefully look at Grandma's meringue sweat on top of the pie in the refrigerator as I opened the fridge door.

"Out! I'll get this later. It needs to set, and don't keep opening the fridge. Can't you find something to do?"

Twenty minutes later, after she moved on to the next task, I popped up. "Grandma," I asked, "can you tell me what you're doing?"

"I'm already done," Grandma said, with her messy brown curly mop on top of her head, her naturally dyed clay roll blonde hair, speaking to the teen preteen.

I knew she didn't have much patience to shape me in her way, but I persisted. "But can you teach me how to make things in the kitchen?"

Looking back, I realize that all this time, my grandfather would appear to distract. In the summer, he would say, "Let's water the garden." And in the winter, he would offer, "Let's find puzzles and games." I thought he was the leader of all fun things. With him, I learned to appreciate gardening, card games, and jigsaw puzzles. I learned how to create projects from leftover items around the house and who the most important golfer was in the 80s.

I don't know why Grandma didn't want to share her kitchen domain with me. She no longer asked. Even if she did, I didn't think she would provide me with the soundbite I was looking for. Instead, what I see now is all the distractions Grandpa provided, offering another way to savor the sweetness of life.