“I like cucumbers,” my grandmother used to say, “but cucumbers don’t like me.”
I wondered what she meant by this but I was too embarrassed to ask. At our house, cucumbers were part of every meal during the summer. I loved them and, as far as I could tell, they loved me back.
My grandmother said other things I didn’t understand. Sometimes she announced that she had slept well as if it were a special occasion. I always slept well and couldn’t figure out why she didn’t do the same.