What I Learned About Food from My Mother
Nothing.
My mother, of Midwestern Finnish stock, made three
things: mushroom chicken, lasagna and
pot roast. I wanted a mother who
relished food, who stood beside me as I stood on a chair and stirred steaming
sauces and learned about flavor and taste.
But mom hated cooking, and she could never reconcile herself sensuality
and pleasure. If anything, I developed
my palate and food sense in opposition to my mother’s: Where she demurred, I took a whopping
bite.
But like any good Lutheran, my mother had secret,
albeit unvoiced, cravings. To the world
she was a good girl: Pleasant, polite,
and never demanding. But privately, she
allowed herself small pleasures. For
example, when I was growing up, someone always ate the frosting off the cake
and scooped the top off the split chilled watermelon. Since my father is Italian and has a
legendary personality and appetite, and my brothers were, especially in their
teen years, mindless eating machines, it was easy to point my finger at three
other parties.
Only after I’d left home and my mother moved
closer because of her illness did I learn what a food sneak she was. It happened one day when I opened her freezer
to find three kinds of ice cream, ranging from nutty buddies to orange bars. By then, Mom had developed type 2 diabetes
and she wasn’t supposed to eat those kinds of things.
“Mom!” I said, in the voice adult children use on
their aging parents when it’s clear the roles have changed.
She giggled like a school girl: “But it’s so good,” she said, smiling just as
wide.
Today, my mother will spend her day in bed, at the
long term care facility where she now live and waits frailly for her body to give up the ghost. I wish in my lifetime
I had seen my mother be more voracious about the world. I wanted to her to have passion and gusto and
I wanted to inherit these things from her, to be from a long line of uppity
women.
But, today, I will bring her a box of chocolate covered
cherries, her favorite candy, and watch her pleasure as she eats one after
another no longer concerned with blood sugar or proper diet. In the end of her life, my mom is all about
the food, and in that sense, she’s the woman I’ve always wanted her to be.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
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