I DO believe good food preparation is equal to love. My mom was an amazing cook. She gave a lot of attention to the details. The correct whisking of the egg whites - for both meringues and daisy (or angel food) cake. The proper paper thin rolling of pepparkokker dough. These were all foods that she made to share with others - and that is where the love came.
I wish I had a photo of my mom's meringues. They were perfect. Absolutely perfect. Who am I kidding? I don't want a photo. I want a meringue!
Several years ago (I don't remember how many), my family went to visit my parents for Thanksgiving. As usual, I took it for granted that my mom would have everything under control. I might help with the Swedish stuffing (prunes, apples, onions, breadcrumbs, spices), but, other than that, I would just wait for the meal to be miraculously prepared (by my mom) and put on the table at the appropriate time. (And, yes, I know how this sounds!!)
Sometime mid-morning, I realized that something wasn't right. My mom seemed scattered and confused. The turkey wasn't out of the fridge. The instructions weren't given (!) for making the stuffing. The ingredients for the side dishes hadn't been organized. This all seems trivial in retrospect... but it mattered. And it was another clue.
We (the rest of my family) pulled the Thanksgiving dinner together. We followed the recipes and got it all going. And, in the end, my mom thought she had prepared the whole meal.My mom doesn't cook anymore. Sometimes she asks me for recipes. She says, "I don't know why I'm not cooking. Your dad does everything now." She stopped cooking a few years ago (maybe more?). It wouldn't be safe for her to cook now. And she just would not be able to pull it together. But, she doesn't seem to have any idea of how long it has been since she last cooked a meal.
I can't imagine how sad this must make her feel. I believe in my heart that she knows. I believe she knows she is not doing the things she once loved to do. I believe this causes her anxiety and sadness and confusion. I also believe that she is unable to make sense of it all. Preparing a big meal like Thanksgiving is (or can be) an act of love. Baking cookies to bring to friends; preparing a meal to share with guests... all of that is an act of love. My mom is not able to do that anymore. She is unable to give in that way and is only able to receive. I can't imagine how that must make her feel. Deep inside. Deep where her soul is.
I have never tried making meringues. I am thinking that I might try to do this next time I go for a visit. Perhaps my mom *might* be able to coach me. Maybe something in the process would bring back a memory for her. The right stroke with the whisk. The correct "look" to the egg whites when they are frothy and ready. I'll let you know. And, if they turn out just right, I hope I can share some with you. Because that is what it's all about.
And now I dream of meringues. I dream of my mom making meringues. I can see the kitchen - crystal clear - when the meringues come out of the oven. I can see them being transferred to a serving tray. And the ice cream being spooned into the middle of the meringue. And my mom - just as easy as can be - sharing them with her company.
This was beautiful, Becky.
ReplyDeleteLovely.
ReplyDelete