For those of you who don't know the old broad, you can still read about her in the local rag (where you can also find stories about my old high school boyfriend).
My grandmother was widowed when she was quite young, only 38. She had two teen-aged daughters. She was not maternal, not a cook nor a baker. She worked throughout her life, including when her children were small. The only food my grandmother has ever prepared for me to eat was lobster stew which she dutifully made once a year (Christmas eve) until the year she used surimi to save money and the responsibility was revoked by full family council.
Still, she gamely cooked the first time my father came for dinner to "meet the family." She bought an inexpensive steak, and cooked it as if it were a roast. After one bite, my father told her "Mrs. Alexa, I can't eat this." My mother was mortified, but my grandmother will tell you this story herself. She can't cook, and she doesn't care who knows it. Secretly, I think it's because she makes a mean martini*.
*Referents deliberately vague.