Paris was still a world away.

My Grandfather will always be the love of my life. I was raised for most of my first ten years by my paternal Grandparents. Both of my glamorous parents were teenagers when I was born. My mother was not even sixteen:hence, I became my Grandparents project.I owe my very life to them. My Grandmother whose namesake I share, was a violinist and pianist.Although she was strict and demanded perfection, at her core she was a softie. In their household the roles were reversed.

Grandfather marketed and cooked, and Grandmother taught music and played concerts. I used to stand by the sink in the kitchen and watch my Grandfather wash the produce with great care. He had a beautiful garden of Heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn, apricot trees, orange, lemon and avacado trees. While he tended his garden I made mud pies and decorated with berries from shrubs, chased butterflies and captured tomatoe worms {which are probably some of the most grotesque things on the planet}.

Grandfather made fresh lemonade and stewed apricots from his trees.I routinely accompanied him to markets and dairies. Every outing felt like a trip to Disneyland.I basked in his loving attention while he spun tales of Derringer and Gary Cooper. On a lucky occasion he would sing Home On the Range in his craggly off key voice. I would insist how perfect he was... and to me, he was. My Grandfather was the richest man in the world.

The pinnacle of my week in those early days was being called for supper on Sundays. I ran to the dining table with glee to be able to eat my Grandfather's pot roast. When he lifted the green enamel lid and the savoury smells wafted, I felt the most loved and secure than at any time in my little life. Sunday suppers would one day become a ritual that I would recreate for my own daughter. When I lift the lids of my pots and pans, it is more than the food that I savour. Grandfather left me his priceless legacy.

Paris was still a world away.