Mary's memories. . .I was unable to pinpoint just ONE specific memory. . .all combine to evoke ‘Grandma.”. . . One of the strongest remembrances is of course Grandma’s cooking…the smell of tortillas, Spanish rice, tacos and chorizo, the scents wafting through the air and making my mouth water, since I knew I could never eat this food that was so good and made with love anyplace other than where Grandma was. . . After we moved to Portland, we would all miss her cooking and she would spend endless hours preparing her famous ‘care packages’ for us. Dad would load us all in the car and we would drive to the Portland Airport. . .we would rush home to unpack and eat, some of the food still warm. We would eat like this for days. . . One of the funniest memories is of a Thanksgiving in Portland. Grandma came to visit and on Thanksgiving evening, after we were all full and lethargic, Dad made us pose for yet another Kodak moment. . . we were all so full we looked pained. Dad shot the first photo, but then said, “Mark, zip up your fly!” . . . Grandma laughed until tears were rolling down her face and she turned red with mirth. . . During another visit after Mom got sick, Grandma came to help Dad take care of us kids. I was not feeling well as I had a stomach ache. It was late and I was in bed and Grandma came into my room and with a small woolen cloth wrapped around her hand and rubbed my tummy in circular motions while humming a soothing song. . . I will always remember how she calmed me and made my stomach feel better. . . I have such fond memories of Grandma and all them in one way or another would always make my stomach feel better, whether it was through food, laughter or caring for me. Mary's Memories in full

Jane’s memories. . .One of my fondest memories is spending the time in the kitchen with Grandma while she cooked my favorite, her flour tortillas. I looked forward to “helping “ her cook these tortillas. She would mix the ingredients in a big, stainless steel bowl. Soon she would separate the dough into small balls. I was always fascinated as I watched her pat the balls of dough into the flat tortillas, flipping them back and forth between her hands with a steady rhythm. The ready tortilla was slipped onto the cast iron griddle to cook, bubbling in contortions from the heat. She would start patting out another tortilla as soon as one was placed on the griddle. Between pats, she would flip the one cooking, never breaking her rhythm. As soon as the tortilla came off the griddle it would go onto the plate set out to hold the finished product. My important role began at this moment. I would promptly take the butter and smear it across the hot, steamy tortilla. Then, I would roll it up and eat it with much delight, licking the melted butter that had run down my fingers. As soon as I was done with one, I would begin the whole process again, until I had completely stuffed myself full of her tortillas. I make the same tortillas today, eating them (with a little more restraint), and loving the warm memories of Gramdma and her tortillas.