I'm going to give a (mostly unnecessary) caution about sticking to food related stories. You guys are doing great, but I have to at least say it. My grandparents as a group were a study in contrasts. My maternal grandmother was an avid cook, of the most stereotypical "Jewish grandmother" kind, and every social occasion was draped in chicken schmaltz and full bellies. My maternal grandfather couldn't even boil water, but it wasn't an issue in that household. Furthermore, at least half of his life he had dietary restrictions (high blood pressure, divoticulosis, and later on diabetes), so there was a constant tension in that household between the boiled chicken on his plate and whatever grandma was making for everyone else. Sugar free candies battled for space with the sugared ones left out for the grandkids. Meanwhile, over on the other side of the extended family, we had the non-stereotypical Jewish grandmother. My paternal grandmother theoretically could cook, but my understanding from my father is that it was strictly an exercise in fueling bodies. By the time of my childhood, with all of her own children long out of the house, the pretense was left far behind. What they ate when I wasn't around I have no idea, but the introduction of the grandkids into the household meant lots of restaurant visits, and I could swear my grandmother had to have singly-handedly driven the concept of supermarkets carrying pre-packaged prepared foods, because I can easily recall having it in her household in the late 1970s. My paternal grandfather was incredibly robust and healthy for the majority of his life, and puzzlingly in a household with no cooks really relished his food. It always struck me as somewhat ironic that my maternal grandfather lived in a household where good food was there for the taking, but due to his health he couldn't really take it, whereas my paternal grandfather had to find culinary joy in lesser things. He could rhapsodize about a particularly nice apple. Sit him in front of a nice bowl of oatmeal and he'd find some joy. There were other quirks as well. Grandma Shirley, my mother's mother, always had a bowl of grapes at the ready. ALWAYS. I have to tell you that for many years of my early adulthood I steered clear of grapes simply because of over-consumption during my childhood. Sam, her husband--he of the enforced boiled chicken meals--listened to talk radio or watched sports CONSTANTLY when he ate, short of a large family party where he couldn't get away with it. I have to conclude that maybe the distraction helped the boiled chicken go down a bit better. Also, if no outsiders were present, that belt of his would always be open, and while he rarely expelled gas publicly, you could always kind of hear him fighting it. In private he'd have no compunctions about gas expulsion, but luckily it was always from the mouth. Grandma Estelle, my father's mother, frequently made a point of how she didn't dislike ANY kind of food. It was a point of pride for the woman who couldn't really cook that she'd eat pretty much anything (still is, actually, she's the only of my grandparents who is still alive). Since I was a bit of a picky eater growing up, she was often puzzled by that aspect of me, but accommodated as well as she was able. Arthur, her husband, was as I've already mentioned, a man who easily expressed his enjoyment of a meal. He had some other peculiarities. For one thing, he mixed soda. This was mostly in the days before self-serve fast food soda fountains existed, so what he used to do was actually ASK restaurant staff for "half coke and half orange", or better yet he'd drink part of his own soda and then "borrow" some of yours to mix into his own. He also made his own applesauce. When the tree outside made enough apples he'd use that, but usually he just bought a bunch at market. He'd also order or make "half coffee/half water"--he never had it at full stregnth. Finally, he LOVED malted milk powder. He'd use ANY excuse to make ice cream shakes for the grandkids and then he'd dump a ton of malted powder in and consume at least half the conconction himself. Despite being very different types of people, both sets of grandparents lived in Queens, New York, for most of my childhood. One strange little thing which bound them together was Hoffman's soda. You see, in Queens during those years (basically, the 1970s) people didn't just bop on over the supermarket for a twelve pack of Diet Pepsi cans and some two liter bottles of Mountain Dew. When you were in a restaurant, you drank Dr. Brown's soda, or yes, Coke and the other popular brands. Otherwise? You had your local soda distributor deliver cases of Hoffman's soda. Hoffman's could be ordered in cases of 16 ounce glass bottles, but nobody I knew bothered. It was cheaper to get a case of 32 ounce glass bottles instead. You had a standard order you could call up and tweak, but there was plenty of room to be flexible since they'd fill the case with any mix of flavors you wanted. The empty glass bottles were gathered up and returned with the empty case a few weeks later, and were washed and reused. You'd never know who had your bottles before you, but those were less complicated days and really it wasn't an issue. Of course that was a little universe who's bubble was easily burst, as 8-track tapes went out of use, and my paternal grandparents sold their house in the Whitestone district of Queens and moved (gasp!) to New Jersey. Life was never quite the same. My maternal grandparents stayed in their little apartment in Bayside (which was only a few miles away from Whitestone but quite different), but somewhere along the way they stopped buying Hoffman's. Maybe it was the increasing dominance of the Coke and Pepsi brands everywhere else in the universe, maybe Hoffman's stopped delivery service--I really can't recall. Within a few years, as everywhere else, Diet soda dominated anyway, and Hoffman's couldn't have survived that anyway.