It starts with a dollop. Such a practiced thing, universal; unique. Grandma’s dollop seems to hold everything about her. Maybe that sounds like an insult, but it’s not. Those portions and sizes we dish and serve are the fingerprints of deeper hands. Few things come from a single source. A dollop is one of them.

She pauses over granddad’s bowl of cereal and milk, centering the little carton of coffee cream. In one swift move, she tilts, drops the dollop, and stops. There’s just enough to be a treat and just enough to be a sacrifice, everything about her.

What amazed me most was the perfect entry. Never did she hit a cereal flake, causing the cream to splash and dissipate. It always hit a smooth pool of milk. It seemed to disappear for a moment, and I imagined the long stream of cream sliding through the milk and out the bottom of the bowl. Only when the last of the tail slipped beneath the surface did I notice the perfect coin of cream floating in the middle of the bowl.

My granddad had this every morning, never demanded more, or complained that it was too much. He trusted this measure. Fifty years together will get you that I guess.

When visiting for holidays, we grandchildren breathlessly waited for our moment, staring at the carton as my grandmother made her way around the table. Some ate around the perfect circle, some tried to scoop a tiny portion onto each spoonful, others reserved the entire amount for one final bite.

Forty years later, they’re both gone. My dollops are bigger, now. They always get bigger. The problem with bigger is the treat’s gone. I always thought the cream was the treat, but it turns out I was wrong.