Tradition, Tradition

It's funny how you can develop a soft spot in your heart for something that the rest of you can't stand.

That's how boiled custard is for me. I've never liked the taste of it. I don't really even like the feel of it, the consistency. I don't care for custard pie, or coconut custard pie. I can't think of anything called custard that I like.

But in another way I love boiled custard.

Because the only place I ever heard of it or had it, was at my grandparents' house at Christmas time. Even though I didn't like it, it was clearly considered a special treat, on par with the wonderful desserts we had--pecan pie, coconut cake, or some other delicious treat. So I knew it must be special stuff, and I didn't what was wrong with me that I didn't like it.

So when I saw these cute containers of boiled custard in the grocery store, and I had in the back of my mind that my husband did like the stuff when he tried it many years ago at Grandmother's house, I decided to buy some and bring it home.

Turns out he said he never did like it, either, and it wound up being disposed of.

But the truth is, I kept it for a good while in the refrigerator just because each time I saw it, it reminded me of Grandmother and her voice and accent, and the coziness of her kitchen and the elegance of her dining room, and the happiness of our times there.

Life is full of paradox. And part of me still wishes I could like boiled custard, just to have that in common with the grownups in my young life. And because it seems part of a tradition, a culture, that may be fading away. The same way I wish I could speak with the accent my grandmother had, that wonderfully rich, elegant Southern accent. But I can't, at least not for long.

On the other hand, they're selling boiled custard at Superlo Grocery, so maybe that tradition is in good hands. I hope so. I do hope so.