My mother was always a small woman (she could fit on the head of a pin, Louise used to say), and though she's changed as age sets in, her feet always seem the same. They are lovely, even as she gets older, and white and clean, but she prefers slippers to being barefoot, so I see only glimpses of them before she gets into bed, or when she slips quietly from her bedroom to the bathroom for a shower.
She couldn't help but finger through our kitchen again during this visit - a cramped kitchen, she's told us every time she's here - and she discovered the large plastic bowl of leftover turkey soup that we squirreled away in the freezer after Thanksgiving. She got it out and let it thaw, the clumsy mass shifting every so often in the sink, and then set it to simmer in our stock pot on the stove. She is always concerned about the leftovers. She bends down and rummages through the refrigerator with meticulous dexterity - she always has, ever since I can remember. She will throw together the rice left over from Tuesday night and the zucchini and tomato mix from Thursday for a weekend meal, while H and I go out on a Friday for a decent but pricey spread, only to discover the leftover casserole that we could have eaten months later, pushed to the back of the refrigerator and growing something wretched.
When I was small, she once dumped a plate of food on my head. I remember it - there were fruit chunks that splatted to the floor, and a dry sandwich flopping around. I was being picky about lunch, and in a very rare show of anger, she doused me with the closest weapon at hand, turning my food wholly against me. This was one time in thousands of lunches that she served us up - grilled cheeses, chicken salads, lunch meats, cans of kids' snacks that we requested, while she scoured the fridge and pulled out whatever was left for her own meal.
We ate the turkey soup together, with a sprinkle of salt and pepper and a side of bread with cheese, and I took the leftover leftovers to work for two more meals. There is still more than a serving left, but I can't bring myself to eat any more. I went out for a plastic-wrapped salad today and left the turkey in the fridge. I'll dump it down the drain tomorrow.
She gazed out the window with a pensive expression the night before she left, lamenting the fact that this might be the last time she ever visited us in Philadelphia. I hugged her and reminded her that there would be other places, other apartments with more luxurious kitchens to enjoy, and with refrigerators just the same to rummage through, slipper-footed, warmly and maternally at home and reminding me of the order of things, of how far I have to go.
She couldn't help but finger through our kitchen again during this visit - a cramped kitchen, she's told us every time she's here - and she discovered the large plastic bowl of leftover turkey soup that we squirreled away in the freezer after Thanksgiving. She got it out and let it thaw, the clumsy mass shifting every so often in the sink, and then set it to simmer in our stock pot on the stove. She is always concerned about the leftovers. She bends down and rummages through the refrigerator with meticulous dexterity - she always has, ever since I can remember. She will throw together the rice left over from Tuesday night and the zucchini and tomato mix from Thursday for a weekend meal, while H and I go out on a Friday for a decent but pricey spread, only to discover the leftover casserole that we could have eaten months later, pushed to the back of the refrigerator and growing something wretched.
When I was small, she once dumped a plate of food on my head. I remember it - there were fruit chunks that splatted to the floor, and a dry sandwich flopping around. I was being picky about lunch, and in a very rare show of anger, she doused me with the closest weapon at hand, turning my food wholly against me. This was one time in thousands of lunches that she served us up - grilled cheeses, chicken salads, lunch meats, cans of kids' snacks that we requested, while she scoured the fridge and pulled out whatever was left for her own meal.
We ate the turkey soup together, with a sprinkle of salt and pepper and a side of bread with cheese, and I took the leftover leftovers to work for two more meals. There is still more than a serving left, but I can't bring myself to eat any more. I went out for a plastic-wrapped salad today and left the turkey in the fridge. I'll dump it down the drain tomorrow.
She gazed out the window with a pensive expression the night before she left, lamenting the fact that this might be the last time she ever visited us in Philadelphia. I hugged her and reminded her that there would be other places, other apartments with more luxurious kitchens to enjoy, and with refrigerators just the same to rummage through, slipper-footed, warmly and maternally at home and reminding me of the order of things, of how far I have to go.
I'm sorry to laugh but I can't help it. This post cracks me up. She's just trying to help! I have to tell myself that every time we leave my husbands' parents house...we can't walk out without three bags full of food even though we don't need it. She must think we're gonna starve or something...
ReplyDeleteI agree! I admire her for all her digging around and determination to finish things -- I hope that came through in my post. Maybe it's her generation, it's just a habit she hasn't seemed to be able to pass on to me.
ReplyDeleteIt's wonderful to find you, Quid, and to see that you are, like me, a Philadelphian (who nevertheless has a case of wanderlust). I never know how any of this works—how people find people in the blog world. But thank you for your comment.
ReplyDeleteOh, it comes through. So does the love.
ReplyDeletePretty impressive what moms can do with refrigerator remainderings.