I grew up listening to some truly amazing stories. My grandfather, who just passed away last October of Parkinson’s Disease, was an energetic, creative, and natural storyteller. I  loved and miss him dearly. Right up until the end he was still spinning a hell of a yarn.

He’d have you mesmerized in the first few words. Subsequently, we’d ask him to repeat the same stories over and over, to see if they changed. Never. Neither the story nor the storyteller ever faltered.  And whatever he said was just as fun and exciting time the 25th time we heard it as it was the first. I think now in retrospect that we had asked him to tell them over and over again just so we’d never forget them. My personal, all-time favorite was the one where he celebrated Easter with the Nazis. That one was a family classic that was told every Easter dinner gathering. My grandmother will tell it this year, but it won’t have exactly the same flavor.

Mammy, as we all called him, had served in WWII in the European Theatre. It was Easter morning back at home in the states, and my grandfather was hankering for some fresh eggs. He and some of his men came upon what appeared to be an abandoned farm in Germany. “Maybe we’ll get some eggs after all,” my grandfather said. His men said they wouldn’t have gone in there, but he said, “I have my rifle,” and waltzed in. There in the barn he found the fresh eggs he was dreaming of, plus a few German soldiers! Out of the barn came my grandfather with an army hat full of eggs, and some very scared looking German soldiers.

My grandfather, telling us that had they met at any other time they would’ve been friends, called a momentary peace, inviting the men to an impromptu Easter breakfast. They were apparently hungry and very grateful for some food. My grandfather proceeded to fry up the eggs on the old fashioned stove he stoked up in the unoccupied farm house.  And the men sat down together, as men, not as enemies.

Melanie Hyatt is an editor at Maine Food & Lifestyle magazine .