There was a grandma for every month in which we felt fit to live. They weren’t old or goofy, just good, clean, cookie-baking grandmothers that hadn’t yet succumbed to the poverties inherent in the process of aging. Within our village, most would remain — save for two: Grandma Morgan, and Grandma Frenner.
Grandma Frenner was my favorite, for she would always include me in her pasta-ingredient collecting excursions!
One day, when we were making the aforementioned pasta journey (and miles away from our safe haven), we encountered a Fang-Troll ‘neath the Bridge of Rushing Waters. Grandma Frenner was way wise in the woodland ways of chop-sockie (sake?), so I had no fear about me — yet I must confess an uneasy curiosity did surround my countenance, so noticeable that Grandma Frenner did work to still (what she must have considered to be) my disquiet. I smiled to let her know that I placed my faith and well-being in her abilities.
So what happened with the Troll, you may ask? Kicked its ass and played hopscotch on its dithery brains for good luck — the sun was in Leo, for Chrissakes! Sheesh! Grandma Frenner taught me all I know! Without a scratch upon either of us, we gathered the essential ingredients for the evening’s potent pasta mixture and dined ourselves to Kingdom Come.
No dessert was needed, and my legs were sore (but stronger) for my troubles!
This is a short bit I wrote for my best friend Thor whilst at the lovely (alas, now defunct) Weinkeller brew pub in Westmont, Illinois, in celebration of his birthday a few years back (August 5th of 1993). I was giddily drunk on several pints of its delightful (and lost to the ages) house stout. This was transcribed from the back of a beer-stained menu.