Pepparkokor

 My brother and I share a precious memory from our childhood: the first time we heard our mother curse. It was the "s" word: SH*T, with a particular emphasis on the T. It was Christmastime and Mom was baking Swedish pepparkokor cookies. Pepparkokor are Swedish ginger cookies which have to be rolled out paper thin and then cut in shapes with cookie cutters. Getting the cookies to roll without sticking to the rolling pin or the table surface is a FEAT and takes years of practice and new tricks and, as I have learned, cursing. But when you accomplish the task of the paper thin roll and remove the cookies before burning, you are treated to the most exquisite treat of the season. 

I'll never forget that first (and rare) time I heard my mother curse. Oh, the emphasis on the T at the end! It brought the word such significance and meaning. At first I was shocked. I had never heard my mother curse! And then I was delighted in the way only children can be - giggle giggle - did you hear what Mom said?!?

Baking pepparkokor cookies requires Patience. My mom had a world of that. Hey - she worked with children throughout her life! She was a disciplined pianist, spending hours and hours and hours to get one measure of music just right. She was a music director and organist at church - having to lead and direct and inspire... and navigate personalities and opinions and - oh, all of that. 

Today I baked Pepparkokor cookies. I baked them in my mom's kitchen with my mom's cookie cutters and on my mom's baking sheets. I found her pastry cloths to roll the dough out on and tried to rub in the right amount of flour so the dough wouldn't stick. I followed the recipe she used from the 1943 Swedish Covenant cookbook (as I have for years). I didn't curse once - even when the dough stuck to the cloth. The time with this dough was much too precious.

There are so many other things to curse about right now. The grief. The pain. The loss. Our world (our families) is/(are) so fragile right now. We need to tiptoe and slow down and take care and breathe. And work. And hope. And roll. And cut. And smell. And taste.

I traveled with my mom today. She's not here in the physical sense, but she's here in Christmas. She's here in the preparations, the decorations, the delights.  She's here in reminding me that the greatest gift can be a memory. She's here in reminding me that traditions have meaning and that smell and taste are life. She. Is. Just. Here.

And she's There. She is there cursing for the fact that she can't be here with her granddaughter. She is cursing for the fact that she can't be here with her family. She is cursing for so much that is wrong with the world. I hear you, mom. I hear you!

I found a photograph of my mom from Christmas time several years back. I love this photo. It is (obviously) BEFORE PCA.  In front of her (not in the photo) is her family. She is happy and satisfied and amused and full. She is full. 

We are in such a strange time now. Life is fragile. The "normal" fragility of life is multiplied by THE virus. We are masked. We are scared. And the "normal" fears of life - if I listed them this post would go on for weeks - are amplified. Oof - I am so happy she wasn't trapped in her illness during this pandemic. That would truly have been a different level of Hell.

Back to pepparkokor. And cursing. Thank you, mom. Thank you for teaching me to (try to) be patient.  Thank you for teaching me to (try to) be deliberate and thoughtful. Thank you for teaching me the worth of tradition. And... thank you for teaching me the value of the T at the end of the "s" word. Oh, what satisfaction I have found in clenching my teeth for the end of that word.  Don't worry - I still don't curse much. Only when necessary. And when I can really, really put my teeth into it.