smokingboot

Here's a scene my mother shared with me yesterday. I don't want to forget it.

My grandfather was wet-nursed. I don't know why, but this happened a lot among the genteel of Spain. Some women made a profession of it. Of course, Grandfather's wet nurse had a child of her own, a girl whom Grandfather grew up calling his Sister of Milk. She in turn always referred to him as her Brother of Milk. He would visit her for her birthday even when grown, and the families would feast together in celebration for a few days. Each morning of the visit, Mum would be given a palm full of salt and told to go pick herself a tomato for breakfast, because it was known to all that this was her favourite food; they called her little rabbit girl, because she loved veggies so much. Off she would go to pick out a tomato, rub it against her clothes to get rid of any dirt, sprinkle it with salt and devour it happily.

It may be between 70 and 80 years since those breakfasts at the house of Grandfather's Sister of Milk, but Mum's preferred morning meal remains tomato. Now she likes it rubbed across fresh bread though still sprinkled with salt. She described it to me yesterday, explaining how she was enjoying the heat and sunshine. She talked about the family, and she sounded very happy.

There's more to say but I am tired and in danger of overcomplicating things. I'll just hold this memory in the light, even though it isn't mine.