Nana was achy. Her eyes darkened blue into a shade of navy when she felt this way. She still lived alone in the canyon where no one could hear her achoo. The house next door possessed a crumbling vacancy sign which she found comforting. One less leaf blower. No one needed to watch as she crafted culinary concoctions that were nothing short of eclectic based on pantry necessity. She took joy in making a version of nachos with naan, sprinkling cacao atop. She liked to sip cava imagining new dishes. “The culinary canon of Nana in the canyon,” her granddaughter Coco liked to say as they sipped cocoa made spicy with chopped ancho chile. Coco liked to hear stories about Nana’s youth when she attempted cancan dancing. Nana was always coaching Coco on new moves from her recliner. “What was it like after the war?” Coco sometimes liked to ask. Nana closed her eyes, imagining dance sequences with costumes, and cannons. Total havoc. Except she often couldn’t remember what really happened. Was that canny or uncanny? “Everything smelled like anchovy,” Nana remembered.