My mom never talked much about her growing up years. She did leave me with a strong impression that she wished she’d been born male. Momma had three older brothers and one younger. I remember her saying it wasn’t fair that the boys got to go swim in the stream when it was really hot and she couldn’t because she was a girl.
I think there
were many other things that weighed on her desire to have been born the other
sex. Her family lived in a Tennessee cove and hardscrabble farming was how they
survived. I’m sure her chores included hauling water, cooking, cleaning up and
in the latter years of my grandfather’s life, helping grandma care for him as
if he was a baby, i.e., bedridden and in diapers.
When the war
came along and her brothers went off to fight, she escaped to Baltimore to work
in an airplane factory. That was where she met my biological father and ended
up going back home with a bun in the oven and a fake story about her poor dead
husband.
Still, in the
old photographs I have of my mom, grandma and me the first year of my life in
Tennessee, we all look healthy and happy. When she and grandma left Tennessee
for Idaho with me, I’m not sure either one of them realized they’d never return.
It was in Idaho mom met the man who became my daddy, and I remember those years
as very happy ones.
There was lots
of love and laughter in our little house. I don’t know if mom had been a great
baker growing up, but I remember how she baked, I think, almost every single
day. I remember pies, cakes, cookies, cinnamon rolls and once, she even tried
donuts. I’m also afraid I was a tad bit spoiled because if I didn’t want to eat
my breakfast, momma would bribe me with some of whatever had been baked the day
before.
After we moved
to Seattle and momma had to go to work, she never baked again, at least not the
way she had in Idaho. Grandma took over most of the cooking and she wasn’t a
good cook at all. I realize she cooked pork until it was the consistency of dried
leather because she’d grown up with pork containing some kind of deadly worm. It
was also her custom, and the custom of many I believe, to cook the hell out of
whatever came in a can. I was a grown adult before I found fresh vegetables and
learned you didn’t have to cook them to mush.
One item both
my mom and grandma could cook that I never ever was able to make were biscuits,
and not from any mix either. Without measuring, they’d put flour in the bowl,
cut in some lard or Crisco, add a bit of water, mix it all together, and squeeze
off pieces to put on the baking sheet. Those biscuits were light and fluffy and
flavorful. The closest I’ve come to finding a close facsimile is the McDonald’s
biscuit. It’s not quite as good, but it comes close and one of these days I’m
going to ask if I could just buy a dozen without any other breakfast goods.
Then, I’ll sit down and slather them with butter, jam and possibly honey and
eat my fill.
I don’t know
why I’ve been thinking about my mom today. It’s not her birthday or the date of
her death and nothing I’ve done has brought her to mind aside from my wanting
something really good from the bakery. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find a bakery
that fulfills that desire. All the store bakeries’ baked goods are fairly
tasteless. I want something that tastes good and feels wonderful in my mouth,
i.e., pie crust, dense chocolate cake, banana pudding made with vanilla wafers.
When I sit back
and really think about this post, I guess what I’d really like is to have momma
and grandma sitting at my table sharing coffee and something yummy while they
both provide the answers I’ve been wanting to questions I’ve had for a long time.
Grandma’s been gone since 1980 and momma since 1998. When I think of them, all
I actually really want is to have them hug and comfort me as I hug and comfort
them…maybe in the next life (if there is one).