Getting my hair cut a few days ago, I saw her. My hair wet and slicked back, there was nothing to disguise my face. She was saying something about my preferred style as she brushed, but all I could hear was the smile of my mother’s reflection. And it washed over me, the same joyful relief and responsibility, as it always had whenever anyone said, “You look just like your mother.”
Sometimes I catch myself — the brain can so easily throw out words that the heart would never dare. And I imagine those words coming out of my mother’s mouth and I fling them away. Because it’s not just her face, it’s about all that she had faced. And how she did it, with grace and dignity. And she, carrying her father’s, wasn’t I carrying both? And isn’t it my responsibility to do the same, and more?
Sometimes I fail. My hand slips on the rock where he stands. My heart breaks the ruffle of her dress. And I know they see me. I have nothing to disguise myself from them. But they keep smiling at me. On shoulder and in mirror. I hear them. I see them. And know they see the love in my attempt. And I give them back their smiles, and I am saved.
If you made a line of every bike ride. Every walk on gravel. Every stroke in one of 10,000 lakes. And if you swept that line through golden fields, and trudged it through snow that spilled into boots. Then climbed it through grades and classrooms. Danced in through gymnasiums. Drove it through the DMV. Set it into the sky and released it to an open door. That line would form the shape of Minnesota.
I learned pretty early on, what could be taken away, and what couldn’t. There is no physical home for me to go to in my birthplace. No scratches of growth marked on a wall. No cedar chests. Gravel driveways have been paved. Empty lots over-filled. Schools torn down. But I am not sad. Everything that has given me form remains. My heart will ever know the way.
My friend from the first grade, and friend still, gave me a Minnesota cookie cutter for Christmas. Yesterday, here in France, with the spring of a schoolgirl, I rolled the sweet dough and cut out the shape of my heart.
I am part of the roads that lead to and from here,
I never saw my grandma holding a camera. The thought of her turning down the flame beneath the gravy so she could take a photo of the meal to come would have seemed ludicrous. The kitchen stove was in constant rotation, as was the table. If she did have a matching set of dishes, I never saw them. And the thing is, we never wanted to match. We sought out our favorite color from the aluminum juice cups, or one of the coveted A & W Rootbeer bear glasses. And maybe the images that roll through my head are more vivid than any photo could ever be. Heart captured, heart carried. Ever.
Yesterday I made bread and raspberry jam. The scent of bread baking that wafts through walls and stairs is only visible from the back part of my brain, the part with strings that pull at the corners of my mouth. My fingers have grown accustomed to the heat, just like grandma’s, as I lightly grab the bread just out of the oven. I laugh as I place it on the cooling rack because we won’t wait. We never let it cool. I make the too-soon cuts and add the French butter that melts in cracks and nooks. Then the jam. A sweet river of rouge. When the taste hits my tongue and my eyes roll back, it is then I can see the strings that are pulled tight against my smile — a smile that struggles to keep it all in. This is the photo I didn’t take. Nor did I shoot the one where Dominique got up in the middle of the night for one more slice. But these are the images I share with you, and will carry with me forever, right beside my grandma’s stove, my grandma’s table, my grandma’s hands.
I suppose it was at my grandparent’s house that I first learned to come in clean. Winter snow or summer dirt was wiped from shoes in the entryway before climbing the couple of steps into the kitchen where grandma wiped her floured hands inside of her apron pockets and brought you in for a loving belly hug. After the apron imprinted your cheek, there was nothing to do but come directly with the truth. The truth of what you had been doing outside. What you touched that maybe you were told not to touch, like the electric fence, or a baby bird from a fallen nest. Maybe it felt safe, because it had been proven safe, time and time again, with wiped shoes and warmed cheeks…so we told all, and she loved us still.
If I come to you with that same truth today, I will tell you that I have battled it throughout the years — love and trust. Maybe we all do. But it has yet to change. The only way any of it seems to work is when I come in clean. When I come clean. When I tell you my truth, and accept the same from you. It’s not as complicated as I, we, often like to make it.
I grab the straw broom from the corner and smile. It has never needed instructions. Nor does my heart — its screen door swings open, and I dare it all again. Safe. Welcomed in the loving arms of home.
My grandma never measured anything. And I thought it was pure magic — she was magic. Because it all turned out. Her kitchen was filled with Bohemian treats — treats that I’m still not sure if the names were real, or if she was just making them up as she went along as well.
The thing is, I never saw the beginning. I wasn’t there when it was just Rueben and Elsie. When the bride from the picture, wearing the necklace I now treasure, burned the dinner, or didn’t add enough flour to the baked goods, when Rueben tried to assure her it was just fine. I wasn’t there when her first born came and she had to strap him to her apron while still trying to perfect the recipe that was never written down. Maybe my mom caught a glimpse, being the second. But it wouldn’t be long and she would be asked to start taking care of the seven that followed. And certainly my mom didn’t know how to be one, she was a kid herself, but I smile thinking of her doing the same, guessing at the recipe for what would make those younger siblings happy, or at least stop crying.
No, I didn’t see any of this. I suppose none of us do, see the work behind the magic. And it’s happening all around us. But I like thinking about it. I find it hopeful. Because for me, it’s maybe even more “magical” to think it was created all along. It’s what drives me to fill the sketchbooks. To arrange the words in a different order daily. Even to bake the croissants. We create our own magic by putting in the time. Making the mistakes. Learning. And trying again.
Today I may find myself covered in life’s flour, but one way or another, it is going to be delicious. Let’s make some magic!
Two of my mom’s sisters ended up in Texas. Being a child in Minnesota, that seemed about as foreign as it could get. (Little did I know…) When my Aunt Sandy returned on her first visit, she already sounded different. I didn’t have the word for it then, but she definitely had a drawl. How strange, I thought. But I wasn’t that worried, until years later when my mom and I took my grandma down to Texas for a visit. Tired from the drive, I didn’t really notice when we arrived, but the next morning, there she was, my full-on Texas aunt, asking my grandma — the one that her northern children only called “mother” — “Mama, do y’all want to go for biscuits and gravy?” Wait! Mama? Y’all? Biscuits and gravy? What was happening???? Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the word mother when they returned and my mom asked her, “Did you like the biscuits and gravy, Mother?” I was already smiling when she answered, “Uff-da, y’all…”
I can see now how it happens. Living in France. They say I have an accent. There, of course, and even when I return. We all want to belong. Be a part of something. And we gather ourselves in, word by word, bit by bit, to make ourselves whole, to find a place at the table.
Visiting the Starbuck’s in San Antonio yesterday, they were all out of the butter croissants, so I said “I’ll take the pain au chocolat.” She looked at me so strangely… Uff-da, y’all, I thought. “I mean the chocolate croissant,” I smiled. I am a part of it all.
It’s not like we were told, but I think we all assumed we had to pick one. By October in each school year at Jefferson Senior High, we fell into line. Jocks, Hoods, Preppies, Nerds, Geeks. Some of us tried to hover between band, the gym and English class, but the differences were clear. Sometimes even uniformed. The only thing I was sure about was that everyone seemed so sure in their roles. Perhaps they thought the same about me. I wasn’t.
I suppose it takes a long time to build a soul. A life. Along the way you discover parts. Tiny sparks of color that make you feel a little bit more like yourself. You grow and change. Adaptations often more regular than choice (maybe these adjustments are the real choices).
Looking at the palette that makes up my latest creation, I smile. A dab of this. A stroke of that. This collection — this beautiful mess of colors that make up my life. Yes, I am an artist. An author. But I dip my brush and I bake. I dip my brush and play yard sports with the kids. I dip my brush and travel. Play fashion show. And read. And build. And change. Stroke by stroke, I am given my wings. Not confined by stereotypes or assumptions. I am my own blend of feathers. And one way or another, I am going to fly!
I don’t think it makes me a serial killer just because I like my dishtowel to hang neatly. (They seemed to imply this in the movie Sleeping with the Enemy.)
I suppose I could have gone either way. My grandma’s kitchen was always, well, I’ll say it, a mess. Dishes piled head high. Pots still on the stove. My mother liked a clean sink. The dishrag hung alone over the faucet, testing the humidity level of her apartment. It was a good day for her if she woke to a dry rag in an empty sink.
It’s funny what brings us comfort. An ironed dish towel hanging neatly in the kitchen is enough to start my day off right. And it doesn’t mean I love my grandma any less, I just know what works for me.
There was a tiny plaque by my grandma’s stove. Above the picture of a very pregnant woman it read, “I should have danced all night.” Perhaps my mother took that advice to heart. She never taught me how to cook, but she did teach me how to dance. Her kitchen recipes included “Slow, quick-quick. Slow, quick-quick. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. A heel and a toe and a polka step.” And so we danced in that clean kitchen, never disrupted by a boiling pot.
I suppose there’s a little of both of them in my French kitchen. I know my grandma is watching as I boil the fruit from our trees to make jam. And it is my mother’s hand that gives me the slight nudge to change direction as she dances me through my clean kitchen.
When my son-in-law washes his hands and leaves the towels in a heap, I don’t really want to kill him. But I would like to tell him a story. Of a chubby woman laughing, a tall woman dancing, both leading me in love.
It’s a crazy world. We all have to find our own joyful way. Do what works for you. (And don’t forget to wash your hands.)
You’ve probably seen it if you watch the Food Network, or Youtube. To test the new students or employees, the head chef asks them to make a French omelette. It sounds simple. I suppose we’ve all thrown eggs in a pan. What could be the big difference, right? I decided to give it a try. I melted the butter in the heating pan. Whisked the eggs with just a pinch of salt. Poured them into the hot skillet. Using a spatula, moved the eggs around, almost in a scramble. Then flattened it out gently. While the top remained a bit wiggly, I gently made the first fold. Then the second. And the third, rolling it onto the plate. Just a glossing of butter on the top, and as we say, “Voilà!”
Almost anyone can tell you a story that is plot driven. Fill it full of noises and sounds. Oooohs and aaaaahs! The big stories! The big events. But for most of us, our lives contain only a few of these. The majority of our stories are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not holidays. Not the trips of a lifetime, but the ones to the grocery store. This is not sad. Well, I suppose it could be…if you choose not to find the beauty of the ordinary… you know, if you’re just going to throw the eggs in the pan…
But I don’t want to live like that. I want to Voilà even the simplest of tasks. The simplest of days. I want to be in love during the week. Be excited at home. Find the story along the gravel path. Don’t get me wrong, the Eiffel Tower is pretty spectacular. And it still takes my breath away, but I can say with joy, and certainty, so do the eggs in a pan.
It was only out of complete desperation that I ate the semi-sweet chocolate chips in the upper cupboard of our kitchen. We didn’t have a continuous stock of candy in our house like my grandma. I stockpiled from each holiday and saved a bit from the Ben Franklin run before the Saturday matinee, so I was able to keep a small stash for afterschool snacks. On the rare occasion that I ran out, I frantically searched the house. Checking first the milk glass candy dish in the living room, but it only contained what my friends called “grandma candy” – usually mints. (Which I never understood, because no one had better candy than my grandma.) Only one other option remained. I pulled the wooden dining chair in front of the corner cupboards. Climbed up. Standing on the orange formica, I spun the lazy susan to the baking goods. Found the chocolate chips. Prayed for the off chance that we also had butterscotch chips to mix with the semisweet. We rarely did. Sitting on the counter’s edge, I poured a handful of the dark chocolate, still hoping for something sweet.
I mention it only because I marvel at my youthful expectation. After countless climbs, it was always the same result — bittersweet — yet I remained ever hopeful. I suppose believers always believe.
I don’t know what today will bring, but there’s a part of me that wakes, ready to push the chair, make the climb, hoist my feet and heart, in search of something sweet. I still believe.
