Grandpa cooked for us on the weekends. During the week he was off playing chess in the park or reading the paper at the club or arguing politics at the café, but on weekends, he was ours. While he cooked, he always danced. He'd set a little transistor radio on the shelf tuned to some oldies station and he'd sway, tap, spin.
I often tried to ask, "Why are you always dancing in the kitchen, Papa?", but mother would tell me not to bother him, saying, "It's just what he does. It's an old habit. Now shoo! Go wash up."