After visiting my sister Karen all afternoon and declining her offer of supper, we were saying our goodbyes at her front door.
“I feel like there’s something I should be sending with you,” she said.
This is a symptom of what I call GrandpaBensonitis; it’s an urge to send guests away with a small gift, usually food of some sort. He was of Norwegian ancestry so I wonder if this is a Scandinavian tradition.
Neither Karen nor I could think of anything I’d left there or that she had planned to give me, so I reached for the door handle.
“Wait, I know! Do you want some jam?”
“Sure!” I said. “Of course!” and took off my rubber boots to follow her to the storage room, where she reached toward a shelf laden with sealer jars.
“What kind would you like?” she asked. “Take whatever you want.”
I put a jar of jam in each jacket pocket (Duckie was in my arms so he wouldn’t get wet and muddy on the way to the car). Karen was happy to have shared some of her bounty and I left feeling blessed.