German Potato Salad

The grandfather on my mother's side was a cheapskate. A real cheapskate. One Christmas, he gave me a used paperback book. Something like “Jimmy Plays Baseball.” It was written for a 7 year old child, and I was considerably older than that. Still had “5 cents” written in pencil on the first page. No foolin'. Asked he, “You ever read that one?” Replied I, “No granddad. Can’t say I have. Thank you.” “Merry Christmas.” I hated going to visit them. In the row house in Baltimore city, where my mother grew up. (‘Balmer.’ ‘Balmer, Merilan.' “How you doin’ hon?”) Me and my sister sitting on the wood floor in the living room. Positioned dead eyed to the manger on the mantle. Given board games to occupy our time. My father loved talking to him, Leo, Leo Groeninger. Because he was brilliant. And he knew everything about everything. A sedentary encyclopedia on the spectrum. His second wife sitting dutifully next to him on the couch. My mother sitting in a chair, the only one left in the living room. “Maybe you kids would like to play checkers, or Parcheesi.” But he had one saving grace: His German potato salad. The real thing. Made with ham fat. Five pounds of ham fat. Or bacon, if you didn't have any ham fat. Damn that stuff was good!