To Susan
Mother's Day and snow is falling on the Front Range, after six days of rain. The world is wet and cold. Still a robin woke me at 430 this morning
with its frantic good-morning song. The
day feels bleak and strange and a little empty without my own mom, who has been
gone for four months. For so many years
while she was sick, she was the weight I carried. Now, her absence is an equally definable
something in my days.
Of
course she is on my mind and in the food I’m eating too. Yesterday, I had a craving for mom’s famous
baked clam sandwiches, a mixture of canned minced clams, cheddar, and mayo
baked until gooey inside foil-wrapped hoagies.
It seemed just the thing to eat on a soggy day, along with way too salty
Lays potato chips, onion dip, and iced Pepsi.
All things my mother loved.
I
rarely eat beige food—bread and chips and dairy—at all, let alone in such
quantities. But by now, I knew the ghost
of my mother was gasping audibly with pleasure—“Ah!—the same way she would whenI brought her cupcakes. Back at home, I
quickly sautéed the onion until brown in scandalous amounts of sweet cream
butter and let it cool while I assembled the sandwiches. While they baked in a 400 degree oven, I
mixed the cooled onions and butter with sour cream and Worcester.
The Thing Itself |
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