My grandmother’s dining room was where we ate every meal, properly, and she had a little table, almost like a bar cart as I recall, where a pop-up toaster crisped countless slices of this bread at almost every meal. Loaves and loaves of this tender, somewhat sweet white bread were loaded into the cart and frozen upon arrival at home in our spare freezer. If I recall, it was a market named Purity Supreme. Our first stop after we dropped our bags was the supermarket where we proceeded to shop with two carts, one almost entirely dedicated to the acquisition of Portuguese bread. I was young enough that when we passed through the town of Sandwich, my mother teased me that we needed to escape before we were eaten. That car had a banquette front row, anyone remember those? I probably wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt – yikes. I remember one year when I rode in the front seat, nestled between my mother and grandmother. My grandmother did not drive so she generally travelled with us on day one of the summer.

I wonder now what he ate during the week while both his wife and mother were away as he really wasn’t a cook! Funny how I never thought about that until now so many years later. Someone had to work! Oh those Sunday goodbyes were so sad, watching Dad hop into his caddy to head home.

My mother, brother and I were the lucky ones that spent the entire month, while my father joined us on the weekends.

For my first 12 years, until I happily shipped off to sleep away camp in the White Mountains, my family spent the month of July with my grandmother at her summer home down the Cape.

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