My cousin's kids will, in time, eat them and think of my cousin, and maybe they'll remember that this was passed down from their great nan.
And so we go on, the people we love become part of us, woven into the fabric of our lives.

Though, to take a positive. The traditions carries on. My cousin will bake this recipe (which, lest you think this is some grand family secret, my nan cut out of a magazine in the 70s), and think of my nan. We will eat them, and think of my nan.

And, like, my nan is still with us. She's still, in some fundamental way, the person I know as my nan. And yet, we've lost something precious. Something has changed and will never be so again.

she's been making them since long before they were a common thing.

So anyway, the thing that just hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, absolutely took me out at the knees nearly crying in the breakrook?

Seeing someone else's name next to that item in the list.

And my cousin, who is hosting boxing day, has started organising by starting a list of who is bringing what food.
The important thing here is one thing my nan did (with various degrees of assistance) was bake one particular sweet street, essentially a millionaires shortbread, but gooey-er, and

Her worsening dementia meant that even with everyone else managing the food and the clear up, that many people in her house was more than she could cope with. Fast-forward to this year, and my nan is currently hospitalised, looking at potentially a terminal cancer diagnosis.

Does this mean Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle *is* a Jumanji?

That's so cool!