For the love of butter

His grandmother was obsessed with butter, no one knew why; it had something to do with cows. When she wasn’t eating butter she was hoarding butter. When she was neither eating nor hoarding butter she was warning everyone in shouting distance (and she had quite the pair of lungs, so this really meant something) to lay off her butter. His grandmother was nuts everyone knew that.
Every morning his grandfather left the house. He’d retired, years ago, from the plant, so no one knew where he went. Finally, one day he stopped, he had to, he was dead.
Then his father died. It could have been an overdose.
Then, it was just his grandmother, her butter, and he. One night, over the empty table his grandmother said, “You know, they never listened. Did I not warn them? I told them to lay off my butter.”
The grandson asked, “How do you feel about salt?”
“Salt’s fine. Live it up. Just lay off the butter and we’ll get along fine.”
He did, and things were, in fact, fine until one day, unthinkingly, he brought home some olive oil.
It was a blood bath.