First, a confession. This post has been in draft form since Mothers Day, when a colorful and easy-to-assemble breakfast recipe would have been truly appreciated. I spent a lovely May evening on our apartment patio, jotting down musings on motherhood while sipping a nice Pinot noir. But when I returned to the keyboard the next morning, I found instead a scrawled manifesto on why motherhood terrifies me. (And any piece of prose that includes the line “NO I WILL NOT GIVE UP CHEESE FOR YOU, YOU WRINKLY, KNEE-FACED HUMAN” has no place in Mothers Day literature.) Continue reading
I didn’t grow up in the kind of family with heirlooms. Our “good dishes” were a scalloped-edged Pfaltzgraff with a finish easily marred by butter knives. My mom’s modest collection of jewelry contained mostly the costume variety—sparkling, perhaps, but of no special value. We inherited no military relics or quilts sewn by great-great-grandmothers or brooches that crossed an ocean. But when the time comes (hopefully many decades from now) to divide my mother’s belongings, I will fight tooth and nail for one thing: her green plastic colander. Continue reading
What’s for dinner?
It’s a question I have either asked or answered most of the days of my life. I still hear it in our raucous little voices, our bodies bursting down the hallway to the chair where our mom sat reading the latest Karen Kingsbury novel or (quite possibly) “resting her eyes.” Her answer could make our day (Ham and cheese casserole!) or summon a terrible sense of dread. (Meatloaf. Ugh.) These days Jason is usually the one doing the asking, his variety of inflections—hopeful, dubious, confused—usually reflecting the aromas currently emanating from the stove. Continue reading