Grand I feel and
Radiant, each time an
Arrival occurs of a
New Baby, a type of
Diety, in my eyes, because at the
Moment of each birth I revel in the newness
Of being. And then, as a grand
Mom, I sink into thankfulness.
Happy Mom’s Day, from my family to yours.
family
As Easy As Peanut Butter and Jelly
We are always children to our parents.
No matter our age.
I find that comforting.
This past week I flew across country to visit my mom. I have adult children now. I have grandchildren, but my mom waits on me as if I’m still her (young) child whom she must care for and nurture.
You know how tenderly we parents watch over our 3-year- old, our 11-year-old, our 16 and 20-year-old? Well, guess what? We do the same when they’re 29, and 45, and yes, even older.
“I bought a wheat bagel for your breakfast, just what you like,” my mom chirps at 8 a.m. our first morning. I don’t eat bagels. I munch on wheat toast with organic peanut butter and blueberry jam every morning, but I so appreciate the thought that I slice the (just thawed) bagel and search for the toaster.
“I don’t own a toaster,” Mom explains five minutes into my opening and closing cabinets.
“Oh.” I turn on the oven to Broil.
“I’ve never used Broil. Do you think it works?” Mom asks, her voice tinged with wonder and curiosity.
I never use Broil either, at least not for toasting bread, so we stand in front of the oven and wait for four minutes.
I open the door. Bagel’s still soft.
Mom rinses some blueberries and raspberries, throws a few on her cereal, and makes me a bowl. “Sit down and eat,” she demands. “I’ll watch the bagel.”
I ignore her and open the oven – bagel’s still soft.
She pours milk into her bowl and I order her: “Eat before your cereal gets mushy!” She ignores me, and we check the oven.
Bagel’s still soft.
Simultaneously, we hit the Broil button off, and then I select Bake at 450 degrees. “Really, Mom, start breakfast. I’ll be right there.”
Mom stares longingly at her now soggy shredded wheat waiting for her on the dining room table but says, “Let me get the peanut butter out for your bagel,” as if I can’t reach up to the cabinet and pull out the Jiffy jar.
I check the bagel – it’s actually getting a little toasted. Nonchalantly I ask, “Do you have some jam?” but inwardly kick myself as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
Crestfallen, she opens the refrigerator and responds, “How about Seville Orange Marmalade?”
“Um, no, I really don’t like marmalade.”
“How can you NOT like marmalade? Here, try it.”
I hate marmalade. Don’t know why, but I have since I was a kid. So like a kid, I shake my head no. I probably pout too.
Mom pulls out another jar. “Oh, here’s Apricot Preserves.”
“Isn’t that like marmalade?” I ask. By now, I’ve pulled out the crispy browned bagel and start spreading it with peanut butter.
“Try it!”
“I really don’t…”
A spoon with some apricot preserves is suddenly swung in front of me, so I place a smidgen on my bagel and take one bite, making a face. “Nope, don’t like it. I’m fine with just peanut butter. Now, let’s eat.”
Her head is still in the refrigerator. “Aha! Red Current Jelly! Want to try that?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I walk to the table with my plate of, by now, cold toasted bagel. “Mom – come on.”
She makes a noise and produces another glass bottle from the refrigerator. “Look! Fig Butter. That could taste good…?”
“Why the heck do you have fig butter?”
She shrugs. “I bought it for a recipe. Umm, that could have been quite a while ago.”
I give her a peanut buttery smile. “Join me.” Her cereal is now indistinguishable from overcooked oatmeal that is dotted with some red and blue berries.
Giving up, my mom sits down at her place, only to pop up with an excited exclamation. She races back to the refrigerator and presents me with her find:
“CHERRY PIE JELLY!”
I groan, “Noooooooooooooo.”
She shrugs.
I begin to laugh so hard I can’t take another bite of baked bagel.
How wonderful is it to have a mom who still treats you like her special little girl, the daughter she still wants to keep happy?
But still, I don’t touch the cherry pie jelly.
My mom, making me dinner and still taking care of me.
Spaghetti Night
How many spaghetti nights have I savored in my lifetime? I shudder to think of it, particularly during these low-carb days when pasta is a no no. Shaking my head, I avoid the thoughts in my head and reach for the ingredients from the shelf.
Why Spaghetti Night, I wonder as I start rolling the ground beef (lean), eggs, chopped onion, and parmesan cheese into meatballs. What would happen if instead I made, say, meatloaf, or God forbid, chicken cacciatore?
I smile as I begin to sauté the meatballs in the large pan. I suppose one doesn’t sauté meatballs, but I’m not frying them for heaven’s sake. Browning, that’s the word. I’m browning the meatballs as I envision the horrified reaction of my family if I served something other than spaghetti on a Monday night.
It all began with my guy, of course. Although he comes from an Irish mother and an Italian father, he only acknowledges the Italian genes. He may be tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, but he’s Italian, by God, and Italians love their spaghetti.
So one of the first nights our kids were old enough to sit down at the dinner table with us and enjoy a “family conference” – I think they were 2 and 4 years old – the man explained that real Italian families eat spaghetti at least once a week, so which day should we designate as Italian night?
The meatballs smell heavenly, and as the rain beats against the kitchen skylight I’m thankful that it’s Monday. I scoop the meatballs to a platter and add chopped green and red 
peppers to the pan, as well as a few mushrooms.
My 4-year-old daughter, that fateful day 25+ years ago, suggested that Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays would be good spaghetti nights. She loved her dad and figured more would be better. My man’s eyes lit up and he agreed, “Okay!”
I put my foot down and replied, “Mondays. That’s it.” Thus, Monday Spaghetti Night was created.
The vegetables are sautéed and I add a bottle of Newman’s sauce. I could make my own, but Paul’s family does such a good job and the proceeds go toward charity. I add the meatballs and let everything simmer for two hours. When my guy comes home, he opens the front door, takes in a big whiff and exclaims, “Monday night!”
The kids are out of college and living on their own now. It’s just the two of us. But Monday nights are still, and always will be, Spaghetti Night.
Granddaughter Sophie wants to start the tradition with HER family.
Life’s Great Lessons on a Rocky Wall
We sit out on the deck on a perfect late spring Saturday, drinking gallons of lemonade and munching on turkey subs. The three of us – my man, my
son and I – have been working for hours in the garden planting, snipping, weeding, watering, and for the men, moving rocks.
The father and the adult son have little to say to each other most times – it’s that time in their lives when the father can no longer tell the son what to do, and the son is no longer willing to listen to anything the father suggests anyway. But when they take their shirts off in the hot sun and push and pull 200-pound rocks to remake a 100-year-old rock wall, then, then they love each other. No talk, just grunts, a curse now and then, and suddenly a spurt of laughter.
Father and Son on the Rocks.
When the food is gone, my man goes back to rebuilding the stone wall, and my son and I sit quietly, companionably, not wanting to move from the warmth and relaxation.
“What are you up to, mom?” he asks suddenly. I never talk with him about what I’m doing. I’m too busy asking him about his life, his plans, his philosophy on life. I’m the questioner and the listener. But now he insists that I talk about me.
“Just the usual,” I reply. “Working, teaching, writing, not much, I guess.”
He looks at me with blue eyes as clear as the sky above and says, “You must be kidding.”
“What?” I ask.
“You could write anything. You could write something like, what’s his name, the guy who wrote Tuesdays with Morrie.”
I laugh. “This from the son who doesn’t read my stories.”
“Yes I do,” he retorts. “I read your stuff. Some of it.”
“Well, what should I write about?” I ask kiddingly. But he ponders the question seriously, thinking.
“Well, a book like Tuesdays with Morrie but about being a mother. You could write a great book about being a mother.”
I examine his face, one-day growth on it, intense eyes, no smirk.
He means it.
I want to cry. Instead, I hug my son, and he returns to the rocks.
And me? I return to my writing…
Never Give Up Chocolate
Pondering the things I wish I’d known.
What do you wish you’d known in your past, now that you’ve reached some type of maturity and can look back?
When I encourage my writing class students to write their list of “Things I Wish I’d Known,” I write along with them, thinking it’s an easy exercise.But I’m surprised by my first esoteric response:
“Never, ever give up chocolate.”
Embarrassed, but intent on following my own instructions of just writing out the first things that come to mind, I continue my list:
“Give to others, but be sure to also give to yourself.”
My grandson already knows some of the things I wish I’d known.
The following one surprises me:
“Don’t worry so much about hurting someone else’s feelings.”
Wait a minute. I catch a glimmer of something.
The next insightful “wish I’d known” advises:
“Those you love, love more; those you don’t like – avoid more.”
Ah, I’m connecting all the dots, or all the “wish I’d knowns,” to be more exact.
Never ever give up chocolate expresses all of the above platitudes, only better.
Never give up what I am, what I need, what is right for me.
Ever.
I’ve learned that yes, it’s important to keep others happy, to take care of them, to be a “good” mother,wife,daughter,friend,colleague,sister,aunt,grandmother,mom-in-law,sis-in-law,cousin.
But, I shouldn’t have to give up ME to be a good anything.
Not that I’d give up my mistakes and misdirections and missions lost. I needed each and every one of those experiences to get here – to a chocolate-loaded life of love, wonder, worry, pleasure, sadness, but mostly joy.
Particularly if I have a piece of saved (and hidden) dark chocolate buttercream nearby.
What’s on YOUR list of “things you wish you’d known”…?
P.S. I also wish I’d known that poetry can be fun, instructive, soul-searching, and beautiful. If you feel the same way about poems, my blogging friend Karen Elliott is featuring a Poetry Week February 18-23 – check it out at http://karenselliott.wordpress.com/ (one of my poems will be featured on Friday, 2/22).
roughwighting 