After lunch, William was just about to relax in the gazebo when he heard a car pull up at the gate.
— Who could that be? — he thought to himself. — And why isn’t the dog barking?
He didn’t feel like opening his eyes, but then the gate creaked, and Emily’s cheerful voice rang out:
— Grandpa, it’s us! Where are you?
Little Sophie was on the verge of tears when her father’s voice called out:
— Dad, you’re home, right?
— Where else would I be? — William replied, getting up from the bench and putting on his hat. — I’m home, I’m home! Come on in! What made you think of your old man?
— Dad, we need to head into town, — his son said, nodding toward the car where his wife sat in the driver’s seat. — Can you watch the girls so we don’t have to drag them around the markets?
— You don’t even need to ask, — William said, already catching his older granddaughter in a hug after nodding back to his daughter-in-law, who had greeted him first. — Of course I’ll watch them. We’ll read a book, right?
The granddaughter stayed quiet but hugged her grandpa tighter around the neck. William tried to set her down to give some attention to the younger one, but Emily wouldn’t let go. He had to lift Sophie with his free hand and try to hold her close. But the older girl started pushing her sister away, and this time, Sophie burst into tears.
— Hey, hey! What’s this, Emily? — William set the girls down on the ground. — You know I don’t like it when you start squabbling. Your grandpa’s big enough for everyone. Run to the gazebo—there’s some grapes on the table. I’ll talk to your dad for a bit.
The granddaughters raced to the gazebo but bumped into each other at the entrance. Sophie started crying again, while Emily reached for a dark blue bunch of grapes. William shook his head and turned back to the gate to ask his son about life. But before he could, his son was already getting into the car.
— Should we bring you anything? — his son asked, barely settled in his seat as the car engine hummed.
— I think I’ve got everything, maybe just some bones for the dog.
— Got it, — the car door slammed, and the vehicle quickly disappeared around the corner.
— So, girls, — William said as he stepped into the gazebo, — are we reading a book, or do you want to go to the swings?
— I don’t want a book, and the swings are boring, — the older granddaughter replied for both. — Grandpa, do you have any ice cream? Mom promised to bring some, but who knows when that’ll be!
— I’ll check the freezer, — William said, heading to the house, noticing on the way that Sophie had wandered off to the swings after all.
In the freezer, he found two waffle cone ice creams. Outside, he saw Emily swinging on the swings while Sophie, wiping her eyes, was already eyeing a pile of sand near the shed.
“Oh, girls, girls,” William whispered to himself, then called out to his granddaughters:
— Come to the gazebo. There’s ice cream, but eat it slowly, or your mom will be upset with me. And do I need that?
William placed the ice cream in little cups, stuck spoons in them, and set them on the table:
— Here! You can wait for it to melt a bit or scoop it up slowly with your spoons, got it?
— Of course we got it, — Emily, already standing nearby, pulled her spoon out of the ice cream and placed it on the table.
Then the girl settled on the bench and started licking her treat.
Sophie, as if she hadn’t heard her grandpa, had found an old aluminum pot somewhere and was using it to make sandcastles. William almost called her over but then decided it was better this way.
The ice cream would melt a bit, and his daughter-in-law wouldn’t scold him for the girls getting sore throats in the middle of summer.
— So, Emily, are you excited for school? — William sat next to his granddaughter. — What grade are you going into? Second?
— Yeah, — the girl said, licking the slightly melted top of her ice cream. — At school, I have friends. It’s fun, not like at home, — she glanced at her sister, who was piling sand into an empty dog bowl. Max, William’s dog, just opened one eye and rolled over to the other side.
— And how many friends do you have? — William picked up a bunch of grapes and started popping them into his mouth one by one.
Emily looked up, silently moving her lips as she counted.
— Four, — she finally said, returning to her ice cream. A moment later, as if remembering something important, she added: — Almost five. Grace wants to join us, but she’s kind of mean, so we’re still thinking about it.
For a while, the gazebo was quiet. William chewed his grapes, Sophie sniffled by the sand pile that didn’t want to stick together, and Emily licked her ice cream in circles. Suddenly, the girl froze, squinted her eyes, and looked at her grandpa, sizing him up. Then she smirked and asked:
— Grandpa, are you really old?
William nearly choked on a grape, coughed, and then asked back:
— Why are you suddenly curious about that? What’s on your mind?
— I was thinking about Grace. Her grandpa is super, super old.
— I’m not exactly young either. See, my hair’s all white. But what do you mean by ‘super, super old’?
— Grace says her grandpa remembers the tastiest ice cream for twenty cents. She says that was a long, long time ago. I asked Dad, and he doesn’t remember that. Did you eat that ice cream? What was it like? Or is Grace making it up?
— That’s what you’re getting at, — William wiped his mouth. — To be honest, I don’t remember how much ice cream cost when I was young. I ate it, sure, but I’ve forgotten the taste. I might be older than Grace’s grandpa.
— You can’t remember anything? What other yummy things were there back then? Grace says her grandpa lights up when he talks about those times. She says everything was tasty back then.
— I won’t speak for others, but do you know what I remember?
— What? — Emily looked at her grandpa with interest.
— I clearly remember the first time I cooked borscht on my own, — William said, picking up Sophie, who had just come into the gazebo. He wiped her hands with his hat and handed the younger granddaughter her cup of ice cream.
— Tell us, Grandpa, — Emily scooted closer to William, glancing sideways at her sister, who was scooping melted ice cream with her spoon. — Mom doesn’t make us borscht. She only knows how to cook oatmeal and pasta.
William sighed:
— Well, ask her nicely. Nowadays, everything you need is available—stuff from the garden, the market, or the store. Back in my day…
— I was working at a factory then. One day, I came home from a night shift, slept a little, and suddenly craved borscht. Not the kind from the cafeteria, where you get a bowl of water with half a potato and a bit of cabbage and beets, but real borscht, like your great-grandma used to make. Still in bed, I started thinking about what goes into borscht. I’d eaten it, sure, and even smacked my lips, but I never paid attention to what went in it. Potatoes, cabbage, beets, carrots, and onions—I remembered those. You could find all that at the nearby vegetable store. I didn’t even think about oil; I had some lard, so I decided to fry the onions in that. But what else was needed? I couldn’t recall for the life of me. And there was no one to ask—back then, we mostly kept in touch through letters. That took forever! To ask your great-grandma and get an answer, I’d have to wait ten days. By then, I’d lose the craving for borscht.
— Why didn’t you just call her? That’s faster, — Emily said as her ice cream started to melt, and she picked up her spoon.
— Back then, we didn’t even have cell phones. Not everyone had a regular phone either. Your great-grandma couldn’t even dream of one. So I couldn’t ask her. And at the dorm where I lived, everyone was at work.
— What’s a dorm? — Emily mashed the rest of her ice cream and tried to drink it, but the waffle cone kept falling out of the cup onto her nose.
— A dorm is a big building, a tall one, with a long, long hallway—like from the gate to the end of the garden, — William explained. — On both sides of the hallway are rooms where guys or girls live. At one end, there’s a bathroom, and at the other, a shared kitchen with a fridge and gas stoves. Can you picture it?
Emily slowly scanned the yard, stood up to peek behind the shed where the garden was, but saw nothing, so she sat back down and sniffled:
— Wow! Super long.
— So, — William set Sophie’s cup on the table. The little girl didn’t want to eat anymore, climbed off his lap, and, glancing at her sister, headed to the swings.
— In our dorm, only guys lived. We rarely cooked—mostly fried eggs or potatoes. Sometimes we’d get ready-made stuff from the store, like dumplings or pierogies, and boil them, but not often. Those ready-made things were so bad you didn’t want to buy them again. One time, a buddy and I tried making pierogies with cheese, and it turned into window caulk. The pierogies fell apart, the cheese spilled out, and we ended up scooping the mess with spoons—couldn’t let it go to waste! So, I ran to the vegetable store, bought everything, grabbed a big pot, and started making my first-ever borscht. I tossed in the potatoes, beets, fried the onions and carrots in lard, chopped the cabbage, and salted it. I thought I’d done everything I remembered, but my concoction didn’t look like borscht—not even the kind they served in cafeterias.
— Grandpa, why didn’t you look up how to make it online? Mom always does that when she doesn’t know something, — Emily said, scraping the last of her ice cream from the cup and eyeing her sister.
— If only, — William laughed and slid Sophie’s cup closer to Emily. — Back then, sweetheart, not only were there no cell phones, but no one even knew about the internet. Recipes were in books.
— So why not get a book?
— Cookbooks weren’t easy to come by either. So your grandpa had to rack his brain to figure out what made borscht, borscht.
— And? — Emily finished her ice cream and was now savoring the waffle cone, chewing it carefully.
— I thought hard until I remembered. Borscht is supposed to be sour! But what to use to make it sour? I couldn’t remember for the life of me. Finally, I figured vinegar would do the trick. While my borscht simmered, I ran to the grocery store. No vinegar there, sadly. I checked another store, then another, and another, until I found some at a vegetable shop three bus stops away. I grabbed that glass bottle and hurried back to the dorm. I splashed a little vinegar into the pot—it hadn’t boiled over yet—and tasted it.
— Was it good? — Emily asked, scraping the last bits of ice cream from the cup with her finger.
— Ahem! — William chuckled. — I wouldn’t say that. It was close, but still not right. I added a bit more vinegar, tasted it. Still not borscht. I added more, stirred, and took a sip. Then I realized I’d overdone the vinegar. I don’t even remember if I ate that mess. I think I fished out the potatoes and cabbage and had that for lunch. But I’m not sure—maybe I ate it all.
— So how do you make borscht right? — Emily pushed her empty cup aside and sat, glancing between her grandpa and her sister, who was happily swinging on the swings.
— I wrote to my mom later and found out you can use tomatoes, tomato juice, or paste. That was my first borscht. I remember it because I ran halfway across town for that vinegar. And you’re asking about ice cream!
— By the way, — William stood up from the bench, patting his pocket, — how about we go to the store, girls? You can pick out whatever ice cream you like. If you don’t eat it now, I’ll keep it in the freezer for your next visit. And here’s another thing—remember its taste. What if your grandkids want to know what ice cream was like when you were little? You’ll be like me, furrowing your brow, trying to recall. And you’ll tell your grandkids all sorts of stories, like I’m doing about this borscht. But will they listen to tales like that?
William lifted Sophie off the swings, took her hand, and held out the other to Emily. The three of them stepped out onto the street and slowly walked to the store for ice cream.
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