Thursday, June 03, 2010

George Frey b. 1911. And still ticking.

My mom put on a sweet party for my Grandpa's 99th birthday celebration. She put a lot of thought into the menu, trying to find a balance between George's favorite dishes (Steak and kidney pie. Liver and onions. Potatoes and gravy. Ice cream) and what the rest of us would willingly consume (Potatoes and gravy. Ice cream. No dice on the kidney and liver). In the end, we had lamb with potatoes and gravy, salads, and deviled eggs. And homemade ice cream, of course. 

For a guy that can't remember that he's married, or that he has children, or what city he's lived in for the past 10 years, there is one thing that he hasn't forgotten: how to make ice cream. I'm guessing that somewhere in that DNA, there is a hidden gene for producing ice cream. 

Clearly being 99 years old or celebrating your birthday is nice, but you still are required to have a go at the ice cream machine. Grandpa actually cranked the whole batch, with a bit of help from Jesse. When asked what flavor we were making, his response: "Why chocolate, I presume". Really, and why would you bother with any other of those fancy flavors?

Nana supervised the operation. 


 We didn't get 99 candles on the cake (we've had enough fires in this house from burning candles, thankyouverymuch) but that didin't matter as nobody was paying attention to the outside. My mom makes such an incredibly delicious spice cake.  Everyone had seconds.

Some of us might have had thirds. 
 And check out my dad's idea for protecting the cake from flying spit. The germaphobes among us were thankful. 
 The family portrait: Mom, Grandpa, Dad, Nana, Uncle Bill, Cousin Jesse, Sonja and Chris
 I think this is my favorite:
 And this one is sweet too. 

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