Before Google, my mother had recipe cards with chocolate stains and bits of dough. A Betty Crocker cookbook so tattered, pages dogeared more with hope than actual meals made. She had a Bible with verses underlined in tears and yellow highlighter. Quotes from books stuck to the phone to remind her of what was actually funny now. Cassette tapes cued to the kitchen dance. And a phone book nearly rewritten with vital numbers like the Clinque counter at Macy’s.
And it was tangible, this chain of life. How it moved from heart to page to note to smile. I suppose it is what I’m still trying to do. To create the images. Meld them with thought. (Neither artificial.) So you can touch and feel, and pass them on, with your own notes and heart and smiles. And amid all the tatters and laughter, what we will have is real. So very real.
Being allowed to use the can opener was almost as freeing as learning to ride my bicycle. I went to great lengths to enjoy my five minute lunch alone in Hugo’s summer field behind our house on VanDyke Road. Perhaps it was the responsibility I displayed with my two-wheeler that gave my mother the assurance I could handle the responsibility of staying home alone. She taught me to tear off the label from the Campbell’s can of chicken noodle soup before I brought it anywhere near the burner. I poured the noodles into the pan. Then turned it on — I was only allowed to use the lowest temperature (You have more time than money she would tell me. No need to burn the house down.) I warmed it to luke, then poured it into the styrofoam thermos I had painted in stripes. I Tupperwared a stack of crackers. Filled another thermos of ice water. Put them all in my corduroy book bag that my mother had sewn for me. Placed that into the wicker basket of my bike. Kissed good-bye my dolls and stuffed animals as if going off to war. Then rode the five minute trail along Hugo’s field. Sat down in the smallest clearing just off the edge. Emptied the book bag. Made it into a tablecloth. Drank my soup. Drank my water. Relished in being my summer self. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful.
Here in France, I learned to bake the worshiped bread. Normally I do it in the afternoon. Freeze it for our toast each morning. But once in a while, I have the desire to start the day with fresh break. That means making the special recipe before bed. Getting up early. Then finishing the kneed, the roll and the baking. Washing the dishes while it bakes. Our house becomes a boulangerie. My fingers dance on the crust, as I cut the pieces. The butter melts without urging. Even the honey and jam feel special. It is only for this breakfast. There will be additional bread, but only this one moment, eating in the waft of this happy morning.
Some might say it wouldn’t be worth it. But then they wouldn’t have can-openered their way to magic. I guess that’s for all of us to decide. Me, I hope I will try to make the most of each moment. What else do we have?
I recently finished the book of short stories by Ann Patchett, These Precious Days. The highest compliment I can give it is, it’s not yet finished with me. If you’re a reader, you know this feeling. How the words sit with you, familiar-like at the kitchen table. Laugh with you. Cry with you. Bent over, trying to finish the sentence of “Remember when…”
This book sits with me. I don’t like to give much away. I think books are made to be discovered. Page by page. And these stories are combined like an album of your favorite music. Luring you in, but not giving you the best immediately. Building slowly. To a crescendo, then leveling you back down. Resting beside you.
I have written since I was five years old. No matter what I was feeling. Pencil, crayon, to paper, and then hands stretched out, reaching it towards my mother. I suppose I’m still doing this, daily.
The story in which she speaks about her father passing, she misses this one thing the most — receiving his feedback. She relied on him. Counted on him. For safety. Honesty. And most of all, the immediacy. I had that, with my mom. Her entire life. I had her attention. No matter what she was doing, she would stop. Take the time. Even if it was one word, it filled my entire heart.
I heard recently that sometimes the best prayer you can say is “Wow!” I know what that means. When my mother gave me a wow it did feel like an answered prayer. An answer to the prayer of protect me, love me, stay with me, sit with me in the familiar.
These are indeed the precious days. I had this. I have this. I’m learning, even on the days when missing her cracks my heart to the core, I send up the only prayer necessary — a prayer of thanks, of gratitude — I had such a mother — I get up off my knees and shout, “Wow!!!!”
