Thank you for all your kind words about my grandmother. Because if she met you, she wouldn't be that kind. In retrospect you might be able to laugh at the things she would no doubt say to you but you might feel a little sting and your eyes might well up if you encountered her in person. (Worse still, if you farted in the stall next to her.)
There is an epilogue to the Michael Mina story. The one where she is in such an expensive restaurant that they don't even print prices on the women's menus. Where they have a little ottoman for your purse to rest on. Where you shouldn't get drunk and pick up your entree with your fingers. That one.
We were all gathered at my cousin's house shortly after mother's day this year. I brought sandwiches from Reading Terminal Market for everyone to sample. (It's a lot easier bringing sandwiches than it would be to haul this crowd from Exton into the city. They are so not city people.) My cousin picked up a giant blondie from the supermarket bakery for dessert--even though she makes the best desserts ever! Anyway, my cousin cut it up and put it in front of her. My grandmother picks it up in her fingers and asks, "What's this?" I had to bite my tongue, and the dude and my uncle were shaking with laughter. My dad says, "It sure as hell isn't a filet mignon!" I almost peed.