Chick Wit: A puzzling quest with a meaty finish

Daughter Francesca sits in today.

The last time Grandmother Mary came to visit, I really wanted to spend quality time with her. But I had to face it.

She's just not that into me.

I tried to show an interest in her hobbies. Namely, "the puzzles."

My grandmother is a master of word puzzles: crosswords, cryptograms, acrostics, seek-and-finds, etc. She has whole books of them. But crosswords are her very favorite, her puzzle soul mate. She completes two crosswords before she's done with her morning coffee.

They're practically part of her diet.

I was an English major in college, I'm a better than average Scrabble player, and my mind is young and sharp, so I thought I could help her do one.

Turns out, I suck.

But I was worse than unhelpful. I was a handicap.

First, I answered the clues out of order, which made my grandmother insane. I had the gall to skip around, when the only proper way to work on a crossword puzzle is block by block.

Then, when she directed me to fill in an answer, I did so with a black pen. Outrage. Who raised me? Red is the only acceptable color ink. Black matches the lines and numbers, and therefore is not clear.

Red has contrast, not to mention style.

I let her do her puzzles in peace.

So I took a different tack. My grandmother was a hot number when she was younger, and one beauty habit she's kept over the years is filing her nails. She carries an emery board with her at all times.

She refused to carry the Life Alert we got her, but God help us if she can't find her nail file.

Maybe it's genetic, because giving manicures is my secret talent. So I thought, great, I'll paint my grandmother's nails for her!

Not interested.

Nail polish chips in a day, not to mention containing dangerous chemicals, she says.

This from a woman who held a cigarette between her fingers for 65 years.

So a "no" to the nails.

Finally, I make her an offer she can't refuse.

"Will you teach me how to make your famous meatballs and sauce?"

This got her excited. She dictated the shopping list, full of secret ingredients such as onion powder, garlic powder, dried basil, and diced, pureed, and paste forms of canned tomato.

Freshness is against tradition.

When I returned from the store, I laid everything out for her approval. Everything passed inspection except one thing:

Me.

"You're wearing nail polish," she said.

"So?"

"You can't make the meatballs with nail polish on. It will poison them."

I knew better than to resist. "I'll take it off."

"With remover?" Her brown eyes widened. "Even worse. You can watch."

But I begged her to let me help, and no grandparent can resist a wailing grandchild, even if she's 20.

We set to work. I made plenty of rookie mistakes - making some too big, too small, too wet, or too dry - but even my grandmother's nitpicking was loving. "No, Kitten, like this," she would say.

She may pretend I'm a nuisance, but I'm her favorite nuisance.

When we were finished, we had made the most delicious meatballs in existence. More than 50 of them, which should give you an idea of my family's portion control.

After dinner, I asked my grandmother if she could write out the recipe for me.

"My hands feel dirty. I'll do it tomorrow."

But her hands looked clean to me.

When I reminded her the next day, she said, "My eyes are tired. Later, Cookie."

But she did two puzzles after that.

What gives? Then I caught on. Maybe she didn't want me to make the meatballs without her. Not that she wanted to be the lone expert, but that she wanted to feel needed. She didn't gather from my interest in puzzles, manicures, and meatballs how much she already was.

When we were saying goodbye at the airport, my grandmother pointed a finger at me and said, "Don't think I forgot. I'll write the recipe when I get home and send it to you."

I gave her a hug. "We'll make them next time you come up."