Sitting in my mother's kitchen, the screendoor open to the back porch, the warm breeze blowing through, I smell the hamburger frying in the frying pan. This is a smell that says I am home. No young-ish woman nowadays cooks a burger in a frying pan . If she even has a frying pan. (I hear my mom "swiffering" her way up the stairs as I eat...pink curler placed precariously in her permed hair, robe on, headed for prayers then bed. It's 9:00 pm...)
Kitchen's say MOM. At least in my house they did. The smell of hot italian peppers frying in the morning wafting up the steps making you choke -- a nice way to start the morning! -- for dinner that night, or as an accompaniment to lunches. So funny to think of. Full breakfasts before school, cream of wheat or oatmeal or eggs; a "nice" piece of cake after school, dinner at 6, no matter what. Sunday dinner at 2pm..no matter WHAT...
I remember certain situations as if they were yesterday: my mother nonchalantly telling us how her mother died, her back to us while she did the dishes one night, when one of us aksed. Quietly saying two words, "Illegal Abortion." We all looked at each other and fell into laughter then silence at the lucidity of her simplistic response and at the fact that after all these years she never shared with us something that had impacted her life so greatly. An illegal abortion - wow.. I remember my father working 2 jobs -- being a cop during the day, then driving a taxi at night and her making him dinner at 11pm. Us all sitting around the kitchen table again, him making us laugh, telling us jokes, her whipping up chicken cutlets or scrambled eggs. No matter what time it was always delicious. (My mother is an exceptional cook.) Me getting in trouble in the kitchen, coming home late and her waiting by the clock to yell at me. Often. Those stealy sicilian eyes that have softened over time burning into me. It was brighter in the kitchen for her to see my eyes. Long talks in the kitchen about boys and friends, about heartbreak and heartache. Dancing in the kitchen after dinner to the radio (Do the Hustle - doo doo doo doo doo doo de doo doo..). My father singing at the kitchen table - Fly me to the Moon and let me sing forever more.... And even now, as I sit here typing to a BLOG, I hid it as she walked in the room so I wouldn't have to explain what I was doing. (a What??) Even now I am keeping secrets in the kitchen.
Since my Dad has been sick I've spent so much time in this kitchen it's hard to remember I have my own kitchen. My own kitchen holds the same magic. Hot chocolate for the little kids in the winter in the kitchen, long talks about curfews and drinking in the kitchen, homework at the kitchen table, burping a baby walking around the kitchen. And for a long time while I was married, typing emails way into the night at the kitchen table to someone I probably never should have typed to...yes, the kitchen.
Tonight my mother made me a hamburger, fried in a little bit of oil, with a nice slice of Kraft american cheese melted on top of it (on 2 slices of gluten free toast.) with ketchup (no onion) and a good jersey tomatoe. Nuthin better! Medium rare. Crispy on the outside, pink on the inside. Salt and pepper. A tall glass of shop rite Iced Tea. nummy. As I'm eating I look up and Jesus watches me with his eyes, keeping me company. He's all over this house, in the form of plastic statues, and pictures. The Blessed Virgin too (my home girl.) St.Jude. And lots of angels. I wonder with all this idolatry surrounding us how anyone ever gets sick.
Now that my mom is in bed reading, I can pass on the desert. But maybe I'll wander in for a midnight snack, passing pictures on the wall of all my neices and nephews, grandma and grandpa, aunts and uncles...
My mother is one of the last people I know that prays on her knees at bedtime. She is upstairs now, door halfway closed, on her knees praying to my sisters long passed, to her mother, and saying the rosary. There is always a special prayer for me. Which I in turn pass on to the people in my life I always pray for. As a woman, I've become my mother. I am blessed for that.
Tonight I will sleep in my father's sick bed, watching the TV, smelling him on his pillows. Not in the hospital with him for a change, next to him, but this night sleeping close enough to my mom in case I want to crawl in with her in after a nightmare, or maybe even just getting some of that woman stuff from her. Secretly asking her for advice I cannot verbalize, or telling her about a love I cannot have. Someone elses love. She won't hear me, I can whisper it in her bad ear, but she will look at me anyway and tell me how pretty I look, and that will be good enough...
Until the next meal in the morning....and a big smile on her face....with a weak cuppa joe in her hand..
I remain..Marylou's daughter. God speed and g'night...
Kitchen's say MOM. At least in my house they did. The smell of hot italian peppers frying in the morning wafting up the steps making you choke -- a nice way to start the morning! -- for dinner that night, or as an accompaniment to lunches. So funny to think of. Full breakfasts before school, cream of wheat or oatmeal or eggs; a "nice" piece of cake after school, dinner at 6, no matter what. Sunday dinner at 2pm..no matter WHAT...
I remember certain situations as if they were yesterday: my mother nonchalantly telling us how her mother died, her back to us while she did the dishes one night, when one of us aksed. Quietly saying two words, "Illegal Abortion." We all looked at each other and fell into laughter then silence at the lucidity of her simplistic response and at the fact that after all these years she never shared with us something that had impacted her life so greatly. An illegal abortion - wow.. I remember my father working 2 jobs -- being a cop during the day, then driving a taxi at night and her making him dinner at 11pm. Us all sitting around the kitchen table again, him making us laugh, telling us jokes, her whipping up chicken cutlets or scrambled eggs. No matter what time it was always delicious. (My mother is an exceptional cook.) Me getting in trouble in the kitchen, coming home late and her waiting by the clock to yell at me. Often. Those stealy sicilian eyes that have softened over time burning into me. It was brighter in the kitchen for her to see my eyes. Long talks in the kitchen about boys and friends, about heartbreak and heartache. Dancing in the kitchen after dinner to the radio (Do the Hustle - doo doo doo doo doo doo de doo doo..). My father singing at the kitchen table - Fly me to the Moon and let me sing forever more.... And even now, as I sit here typing to a BLOG, I hid it as she walked in the room so I wouldn't have to explain what I was doing. (a What??) Even now I am keeping secrets in the kitchen.
Since my Dad has been sick I've spent so much time in this kitchen it's hard to remember I have my own kitchen. My own kitchen holds the same magic. Hot chocolate for the little kids in the winter in the kitchen, long talks about curfews and drinking in the kitchen, homework at the kitchen table, burping a baby walking around the kitchen. And for a long time while I was married, typing emails way into the night at the kitchen table to someone I probably never should have typed to...yes, the kitchen.
Tonight my mother made me a hamburger, fried in a little bit of oil, with a nice slice of Kraft american cheese melted on top of it (on 2 slices of gluten free toast.) with ketchup (no onion) and a good jersey tomatoe. Nuthin better! Medium rare. Crispy on the outside, pink on the inside. Salt and pepper. A tall glass of shop rite Iced Tea. nummy. As I'm eating I look up and Jesus watches me with his eyes, keeping me company. He's all over this house, in the form of plastic statues, and pictures. The Blessed Virgin too (my home girl.) St.Jude. And lots of angels. I wonder with all this idolatry surrounding us how anyone ever gets sick.
Now that my mom is in bed reading, I can pass on the desert. But maybe I'll wander in for a midnight snack, passing pictures on the wall of all my neices and nephews, grandma and grandpa, aunts and uncles...
My mother is one of the last people I know that prays on her knees at bedtime. She is upstairs now, door halfway closed, on her knees praying to my sisters long passed, to her mother, and saying the rosary. There is always a special prayer for me. Which I in turn pass on to the people in my life I always pray for. As a woman, I've become my mother. I am blessed for that.
Tonight I will sleep in my father's sick bed, watching the TV, smelling him on his pillows. Not in the hospital with him for a change, next to him, but this night sleeping close enough to my mom in case I want to crawl in with her in after a nightmare, or maybe even just getting some of that woman stuff from her. Secretly asking her for advice I cannot verbalize, or telling her about a love I cannot have. Someone elses love. She won't hear me, I can whisper it in her bad ear, but she will look at me anyway and tell me how pretty I look, and that will be good enough...
Until the next meal in the morning....and a big smile on her face....with a weak cuppa joe in her hand..
I remain..Marylou's daughter. God speed and g'night...
