Back in the day, I scored off the charts on the Edwards need achievement scale. Without even trying I would strive to do my very best, not for the sake of competition but for me alone. Most of my badges and awards through the years have been courtesy of organizations like Brownies, Guides, the Red Cross, The Duke of Edinburgh's Award and the YMCA; even my t-ball trophy was only for Sportsmanship.

My Gran on my Mom's side was a busy lady. Once my grandparents sold the farm and moved into town, she started gardening, baking and crocheting. Slippers, afghans and oh so delicate doilies served as gifts to her entire family for more than 30 years. And she made the best goodies: Kruppen (a type of donut) and two types of Kipferl. A kipferl is an Austrian crescent-shaped pastry, a bit like a French croissant, and is usually eaten for breakfast with butter and jam. Like the croissant, it also goes classically with coffee. 'Kipferl' really only describes the shape, which means we got the original (basic dough around a walnut/egg white filling and a special, thinner holiday dough) plus a smaller vanilla variant, the Vanillekipferl, a really yummy solid cookie.

For years we would visit the entire week between Christmas and New Years and for years I would wake from my slumber on the livingroom chesterfield in the early morning to see a familiar sliver of light under the kitchen door. I would shake off my sleep and join her to help roll out the dough and grind the walnuts for the filling. She wasn't the best teacher and patience wasn't her forte so a lot of the time was spent with her shooing me away to push in and do it herself; good thing my urge to learn was strong enough to allow me to tolerate that behaviour. And so I became the first and only grandchild to learn to make Kipferl.

I was 12 when my grandparents came for a summer visit. Our house in the country was a soothing retreat for both of them. When I say 'soothing', I think it reminded Gramps of the farm; he would dodder around the yard and trim the hedges, happy as a clam. Gran would sit in the gazebo, chatting away to my dog Spike and crocheting. That year, she offered to show me if I was interested. Again with the intolerance, again with the snatching of hook and yarn from my hands and again with the infuriating exasperated sighs. I persisted, and so became the first and only grandchild to learn to make slippers and afghans and doilies (oh my).

Now that she's gone, I barely remember the pain of the learning curve. I am still the only grandchild to have picked up these skills but it's always been more of a pride thing than a boast to those who weren't interested when they had the chance. Every time I bake a batch of Christmas pastries, every time I hunker down under a cozy afghan this time of year, it's a tribute to a woman who had a hard life but still found time to share.

This has been a Holidailies entry.

Posted at 5:53 p.m.