My daughters call me “crunchy”

(like “granola,” they’re implying),

Hateful of waste,

Using odds and ends and scraps and bits,

thrifting, repurposing, getting a thrill out of trash-turned treasure.

It shows up most in the kitchen, as I

boil down chicken carcasses,

add vegetable peels

and create a “goop” to pour over the dogs’ kibble.

“They love it!” I say,

and my children roll their eyes,

knowing it is as much a gift to my own sense of frugality

as it is for the pups (who really do enjoy it, by the way).

My “crunchiness” predated any internet hype,

began to emerge in my early 30s,

like a hidden thing that was there all along.

I like to think of it as the spirit of my Italian grandmother,

who fed five children on an immigrant cobbler’s wages

during the Great Depression,

who, as my father would say,

could make a soup out of almost nothing

that would make you lick the bowl.

The times have changed;

all her grandchildren have plenty to eat,

but her spirit still drives this one to make “soup” out of “almost nothing”

feeding it to the lucky dogs, who, yes,

do lick their bowls.