Pistachio Salad

The last thing the internet or the world really needs is another recipe for Pistachio Salad. We’ve all made it and eaten it a thousand times. So why am I posting this?

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My recipe isn’t different than any of the other recipes except maybe that it calls for Dream Whip instead of Cool Whip. But honestly, I don’t know that that makes any difference to the dish. One could substitute homemade whipped cream and pretend to be fancy. A garnish of crushed pistachio pieces elevates the dish.

But really, that’s all crap. The reason I chose to write this post is because Pistachio Salad is one of my grandma’s favorite salads. You see that white dish in the photo? I got that from my grandma. As long as I can remember it was sitting on the right side of the dark shelf framing her kitchen window.

Now it lives on a shelf above my dining room window. It is surrounded by lovely bits of china that I’ve gotten from my grandma, my mom, and various friends. It makes me smile (even more when it’s filled with grandma’s salad in my herby fairy garden).

Disclaimer: I took these photos last summer. We didn’t actually make this pistachio salad today, yesterday, or even this past weekend.

I spent last weekend visiting my grandma. It was a long overdue visit.

When my grandparents lived less than 2 hours away, I took the kids up to visit fairly often. Often I’d do little more than sit in grandma’s kitchen and talk to her while the kids were playing with grandpa in the basement.

I sat at the table while grandma cooked. She even let me help at times. I told her all about my life. I told her the good things, the bad things, and the really ugly things. She didn’t give me great advice or ease all my troubles, but talking to her helped.

The conversation was not one-sided. She told me about the adventures she and grandpa had. When the boys were young, grandma and grandpa had adventures on the road. They drove around to Amish quilt shops and other places. I asked Grandma about things in her house or her cookbooks and she would be able to tell me where everything came from.

Around the time I got divorced, the conversations changed. The trips all over turned into weekly trips to Appleton to do some errands and to go to the movies. When my youngest was born, they took their last trip to my house.

I have the most beautiful picture of grandma on that day.

Grandpa never came to my house again. Grandma came one last time with the aunties. I left the baby with them and went to get the boys from school. The baby cried if anyone except grandma looked at her.

Years pass as they do and grandma and grandpa decided the upkeep of a home was more than they wanted to take on in their 90’s. They moved 5 hours away and my heart was broken.

For 3 years, I didn’t visit. There were a million excuses. Mostly related to work and scheduling weekends with the boys’ dad.

I started calling them every other week. I gave grandma the updates on my lilacs and my gardens. I’d listen to grandpa talk about his latch hook projects and the books he was reading.

Somewhere along the way, things changed. Grandpa isn’t himself any more. He answers the phone, but I need to introduce myself every time. I am asked the same questions. He tells me that he’s living in an assisted living center. There is no indication that he remembers that I helped him move. He can’t remember the word for “latch hook”. But when I say “Caroline” his voice lightens and he laughs. Within a few minutes he calls Grandma to the phone. “Dorothy, there is someone who wants to talk to you.” I know he says “someone” because he can’t remember my name.

Grandma gets on the phone and sounds so good. She sounds re-energized and I realize how much taking care of the house and grandpa had taken out of her. After I ask about her projects, she tells me that she’s taken up latch hook. “I forgot how enjoyable it was.” After filling her in on the kids, I promise to call in 2 weeks and hang up the phone.

Two weeks go by and I call grandma again. Except this time, I called my aunt’s phone. Grandma would hate me telling the world this, so we’ll just say she wasn’t quite her best self. I explained the situation to my friends, to my therapist, to my family, and decided that I needed to figure out how to see my grandma.

She lit up when we showed up. Her joy was comparable only to that of my husband at the birth of my daughter. My daughter, without hesitation, climbed up next to her great-grandma to be snuggled. One son held grandma’s hand and told her how much he loves her. The other son was a bit shy, but readily accepted hugs.

With more planning, I probably would’ve brought grandma a pistachio salad, but we brought flowers instead.

The Recipe:

If you like this recipe, you might also like Cranberry Fluff Salad, Butterscotch Bars, and 24, 24 Hour Salad.