My Aunt Millie made the best egg custard I’ve ever tasted, creamy and rich with a perfect texture, not too runny, not too thick. This was one of my father’s favorite desserts, and when I was growing up, every three or four months, we’d drive the twelve miles out to the tiny town where Aunt Millie lived with her husband, Uncle Charlie, for a visit and the promise of her egg custard.

Aunt Millie and Uncle Charlie seemed so old to me then, but now when I do the math, I realize they were both only in their early sixties. According to my parents, Uncle Charlie inherited a lot of money from his rich farming family and also worked much of his life as the president of a local bank. This provided enough money for Aunt Millie to wear mink coats at a time when other people were scraping pennies together for groceries and to allow Uncle Charlie to sail around the countryside in a fancy convertible, a big cigar in his mouth.

Their home was not grand, but the front room was filled with many antiques, including a rosewood piano. The furnishings were old-fashioned but high quality, even through a child’s eyes, with wood polished to a high gloss, along with glassware that gleamed crimson and green. The room smelled of fresh lemon oil, and I realize now that Aunt Millie, anticipating our visit, no doubt polished the furniture every time just before we arrived.

The kitchen was always spotless, as was every corner of Aunt Millie’s house. The only thing out of place was Uncle Charlie, who was always sitting with legs outstretched on his recliner in the back room. The television was always on when we visited, and Uncle Charlie, freshly shaven but still in his pajamas and robe, sat staring wordlessly at the screen.

“Charlie, Fid and his family are here,” Aunt Millie would say once we’d all dutifully filed into the room and formed a half-circle round his chair.

Uncle Charlie made a low growl, which Aunt Millie interpreted as, “Charlie is saying hello.”

We – my parents, two brothers and I – would go up, one by one, and kiss Charlie’s cheek, which smelled of freshly applied Old Spice, then we’d go out to the back yard and sit on the gliders and matching chairs that were grouped together under the shade of an oak.

Aunt Millie, always neat in a print dress and apron, served freshly squeezed lemonade from a tall clear pitcher into glasses with blue sailboats painted on them. As the ice tinkled in the lemonade, she pulled a light blue napkin off of a plate filled with chicken salad sandwiches made with sweet relish and mayonnaise and served on triangles of crustless Wonder bread. As she and my parents chatted, I sat with my brothers on one of the gliders – the glass of lemonade sweating from the coolness of the ice and the heat of the day – and dreamed of when our visit would end and we’d get the egg custard that was never spoken of, but which was as constant as Uncle Charlie.

I couldn’t imagine Uncle Charlie as ever being young, much less handsome and rich. He was for me a slack-jawed shell of a man who looked as if his constant care caused my sweet aunt to live a dreary, one note life. It was clear by the way her otherwise sad face brightened when we arrived, that Aunt Millie’s life was lonely. After all, her constant companion had been struck dumb by what my mother referred to as “a death-blow stroke,” and though he could walk with assistance, Uncle Charlie could do nothing for himself except sit in his recliner and stare at The Price is Right.

My aunt called my father “Fid” rather than George, his real name, because he’d loved the sound of the fiddle when they were growing up. Only she and her younger sister, Aunt Lucille, called Daddy that, and they both said it with love in their voices.

Finally – and it sometimes felt as if we’d been there since before dawn – Daddy would rise to leave, which prompted Aunt Millie to disappear into the house. For some reason, we were never required to say good-bye to Uncle Charlie, probably because he often fell asleep during our hello. Soon Aunt Millie would return carrying a paper grocery bag from the bottom. Inside, we all knew, were two quart jars filled to the brim with her delectable egg custard.

To this day, egg custard remains my very favorite dessert, though I’ve never found anyone who can make it as well as Aunt Millie. Perhaps it was the anticipation that went into its preparation – of lively talk and laughter – that made her custard so good. Or else two even more important ingredients that distinguish it from all the others I’ve ever tasted – gratitude and pure sweet love.