It was Christmas Eve and my Grandma was working her magic in the kitchen. The dining room glowed with warm light and good smells were wafting down the hall. If I craned my neck I could make out the Poinsettia tablecloth and a couple of small, cut glass dishes - one filled with cranberry sauce and the other with black olives.
Liking black olives was on a long list of things I had in common with my Grandpa. And so it was with a wink and a knowing smile that my Grandpa would sneak them out and into my hands before the big meal was ready.