Theresa Hong: Sweet on citrus

My grandma's face -- my Oma -- seems ageless and serene. She is beautiful.

It's senseless to talk -- hard of hearing since childhood, her hearing aid has become a relic of the past. My mother quickly found out you can't have too much in this place, for residents in their old age become a bit like scavengers, taking bit by bit, piece by piece, a person's stuff -- and in a sense, their memories.

Instead, I simply sit down, my face inches away from hers, smile, look into her eyes and wait.

Carefully, she studies the canvas of my face -- her glimmering, cornflower blue eyes stare with deep intent, almost through me. I believe she can see my soul.

"You look so pretty -- so sharp," she says, nodding her head with authority. I smile bigger. Not because of the compliment, but because of her choice of words -- "sharp" -- a word she often used when she remembered me.

Oma has Alzheimer's. And I am painfully reminded each time I visit. Her memory of me continues to play a cruel game of hide-and-seek -- I am the seeker, traveling through long hallways where all the doors seem to be locked.

I take the brown paper lunch bag out of my purse, and like a mother holding a surprise, I lightly shake it, knowing this gesture will peak her interest.

"Oh," she says with confused excitement.

Speaking with her eyes, she prompts me to open the crumpled package.

I oblige, and like a magician with a hat full of magic, I reach deep into the bag and pull out a large, juicy orange. Oma widens her eyes, smiles in approval and nods her head -- the orange, like a fine vintage wine, was a good choice.

Piercing through its vibrant orange skin, the aroma immediately tickles my nose. I laugh out loud as small spritzes of juice dance under the bright, sterile lights.

Oma watches patiently with both purpose and amusement as I undress our little treat, peel after peel increasing the intensity of orangey goodness throughout her small room.

Gingerly pulling the fruit in half, I tear a small piece and hand it to her. Her small, shaky hand -- this hand embodying 88 years of strong hugs, soft caresses and encouraging pats on the back -- grasps the orange. Bringing it to her mouth, she takes a bite. Her expression tells me she relishes the explosion of sweet liquid dancing on her tongue and tickling her throat. I hand her another piece.

This exchange -- an exchange that on any given day could involve a banana, a pastry, even an avocado -- is much more than simply sharing food. For me, it has evolved into our own sacred ritual, of sorts.

The breaking of bread, sharing simple food and giving thanks -- thanks for this wonderful woman who may not know at any given moment if I'm her niece, sister or merely some nice lady bringing her an orange -- but who instilled in me a large part of her in the very fabric of my being, including my love of cooking, cooking for love and just simply loving each other.

Our ritual continues until nothing left of the orange exists except the soft peels gracefully draping her side table. The scent lingers like a million memories.

She smiles, reaches for my hand and looks at me. For a brief second I see something. The seeker has found an unlocked door. I know she remembers. And that's all I need.

My Oma was an adventurous young woman. Before marrying my Opa, she and her girlfriend Dottie hopped on a train from Toledo to Californ-i-a. Like most young women at the time, ended up in Hollywood, dreaming of becoming a big star.

Instead, she worked at the farmers market serving orange juice and coffee to stars like Joan Crawford. But she was and always will be the brightest star I know. She always contended the California orange was the sweetest, juiciest piece of fruit she ever tasted. And as with most of her declarations, I believe she was right.

I created this Orange Dreamsicle icebox pie with my Oma in mind, using fresh, California oranges picked from my father-in-law's backyard tree and combining them with the gooey goodness of sweetened condensed milk -- a staple in Oma's pantry. The result is a creamy, delicious pie that tastes like those dreamy summer days when your only concern was waiting for the ice cream man to come.

Theresa Hong writes about food for the Merced Sun-Star. E-mail her at theresa@alamocitychick.com.