My grandmother came from a village called C______. Her name was Disgracia/Flordeluna/Esperanza (pick one, dear reader), and she loved to eat. She and my grandfather, Salvador/Enrique/Arturo (pick one, dear reader) emigrated to the United States in 1940/1945/1950 (pick one, dear reader). During the next 40/50/60 years (pick one, dear reader), they dined out at most 10/15/20 times (pick one, dear reader), usually after baptisms/weddings/funerals (pick one, dear reader). It was only when they had reached their 70s/80s/90s (pick one, dear reader) that my father/mother/uncle (pick one, dear reader), their son/daughter/nephew (pick one, dear reader) and I convinced them that they had worked hard all their lives and now deserved to eat out with some regularity. Thus began a culinary adventure that lasted for the last few years/the last decade (pick one, dear reader) of their lives.
Right? Has self succeeded in writing an enchanting opening to a story?
Self’s grandmother hated cooking. She wouldn’t have spent five minutes in the kitchen if she could help it. She came from La Paz, Iloilo but wanted to forget that fact. She and my grandfather emigrated to the States as soon as they could escape the country. They never ate out because it would have been an unimaginable luxury. When she was 74, my grandmother died, felled by a stroke in the parking lot of Sam’s Restaurant in Placerville, while my grandparents were on their way to spend a weekend in Lake Tahoe. That marked the end of the adventure.
The above are the facts. Now, self has to think of a story. * * * ## @@ !! ## ## @@ !!
Stay tuned, dear blog reader, stay tuned.