Food has always been a story of my family. On one side I am from a big Irish family. St Patrick’s Day was a day to visit your grandparents, eat, and hear stories of pucas and fairies. My grandma Hammer was a woman that could cook anything you wanted. It would taste just like it came from a restaurant. I spent hours watching her buzz around her kitchen like a queen bee. Even the Kraft mac and cheese tasted better when she made it. . The best story she had was how she leaned to make tacos and burritos. My grandpa had a job picking lima beans. Grandma would pack his lunch every day. It would be some fried chicken or meatloaf. How she found out that my grandpa was switching lunches I don’t know, but she tacked down the wife of the man he was switching with. This poor lady, seeing my grandma ripping up the street towards her door. Well as the legend goes my grandma asked the woman what she was packing in her husband’s lunch that was so delicious, and would she teach her how to make it. In payment for this information my grandma would teach her how to make fried chicken and meatloaf. The woman agreed, and that is how my grandma learned to make tacos and burritos.
Grandpa also had his specialties; spam n’ eggs, BLT, chocolate malts, fried bologna. He was born in a log cabin, hopped trains looking for work until he met my grandma’s brother *Dale, and fell in love with his sister.( * He said “my sister is a great ice skater want to join us” … and the rest is history.) The day he joined the Marines was December 8th, 1941. A few weeks shy of his 18th birthday. He was deployed out of the new CA Marine base, Camp Pendleton. Located next to a small beach town call San Clemente. Later this would be where they would come back and buy a beach house. My grandparents spent the rest of their life sitting on the porch watching the pelicans fly by, and feeding everyone that walked through the door.
*Edited – Got the real scoop from my Aunt Mary 🙂