Pineapple Squares

My grandmother makes pineapple squares.
Most of you will not fully appreciate the gravity of that sentence.
But my sister (Auntie Al) and brother (Uncle Steve) and my cousin (Auntie Amanda)
will read it and suffer the appropriate reaction.
A slight groan of longing - "ohhh."
An uncontrollable watering of the mouth.
A recline back in the chair, reflexive from the memory of uncomfortably full bellies.
Full of pineapple squares.



A hazy memory replayed in dimmed color -
climb the lattice to unhook the back porch's inside latch
bang open the creaky screen door and burst into the cramped kitchen
stop for a moment to greet Gram -
she laughs at the sheer pleasure of seeing you,
"Oh ho ho, how's my best girl?!"
(You really and truly believe at that moment that you must be her most favorite granddaughter, although she has three of them.  What has Alicia got on you, anyway?)
cradles your face with loving hands,
kisses you and says, "It's so nice to see you, sweetheart."

Over the years she's gone from reaching down to your face to reaching up.
But it's still the same soft-skinned, flour-dusted arms, and gentle fingertips cupping your cheeks.
This greeting is the sweetest part of the whole visit.



Followed very, very, very closely by what you will find
stored on top of the dryer,
flanked by laundry detergent on one side,
a family-sized drum of potato chips on the other.
Space is tight in this kitchen that fed her husband and two boys three meals a day for years,
and now miraculously holds those boys' families as well
also, Rick and Cora, the neighbors, are usually over
and Beverly, who loitered at the house almost every day after school as a girl
and her kids (of course)
April Jones - a second or third cousin and a  year older than me - was usually there as well.

It was a magical table that sat four but always found room for everyone my grandmother loves.


(Anyway - there was only space at the table for hungry mouths, hands, and elbows
so the pineapple squares lived on the dryer.)



Pineapple squares, like manna,
cannot be contained by any one meal category
and thus it is an unspoken rule that, regardless of the time of day,
they are up for the grabbing.
You can waltz into the kitchen from a post-swimming summertime TV coma at four in the afternoon,
kiss Gram on the cheek while she is busy

 discussing the price of a gallon of gasoline with your dad,

reach over her to the dryer
to fill your chlorine-scented, grubby hands with pineapple squares,
 and drift blissfully back to TV land along with siblings and cousins,
your mouth filled with the sweet comforting familiarity of this moment, 
which tastes of pineapple.


Presently, as I find myself solidly in the years of adulthood,
a lump rises in my throat
at the sudden realization that I will most likely never experience that feeling again.
Gram doesn't really bake pineapple squares anymore.
Everyone's concerned about their waistline. 
The living room's couches no longer overflow with grandchildren
because everyone lives in Ohio or, now, Kansas.
And anyway, I'm too big now to eat half a tray of pineapple squares
while lounging the afternoon away in front of MTV,
only giving kisses as payment.



Because now I have my own kitchen to mind, 
my own gas prices to worry about,
my own children to care for.
And my memories of pineapple squares are stacked high and deep enough
that by now I know that those pastries were worth far more than a kiss.



How do you repay your grandmother
for something so simple and so rich?
A gesture made of flour and sugar and baking soda
that says,
"I so glad you've come.  I've prepared something special for you.  Please sit down, relax, and enjoy it."

The real richness, of course, is in the memories cloaked in that cloyingly sweet taste of pineapple sandwiched in cakey pastry dough
and how they all come crashing back to me in waves when I taste the pineapple filling, 
roll out the dough, and tuck it under itself
with the same tenderness that I use to tuck in my little ones at night.


My answer is to pull out the handwritten recipe cards and cracked "measuring cup" (1940s coffee mug)
she gave me at my wedding shower 
and to assemble Gram's pineapple squares
step by step
even though she's not standing at my elbow 
to lecture and to correct (because I'll never do it perfectly, as she can).


I can only hope that my children and their cousins (God willing)
will one day gather in someone's living room
languorously lounging around and chewing pineapple squares
which they will take (almost) completely for granted.