Freshly canned peaches accompanied breakfast of cheerios and yogurt. A box of Jiffy Raspberry Muffins stared down at me while grocery shopping. I peeled and cut carrots as I remembered them prepared. And a small cup of vanilla pudding topped of my dinner.
I don’t know if the pending Mother’s Day is channeling my thoughts and actions, but as I reflect about my day I can’t help noticing how my default patterns came from my mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Granny June had a particular way of preparing her canned peaches that let me taste a bit of heaven with every bite. Perhaps it was just the right amount of sugar, but I think it was the surprise that even in February she still had another jar ready for us. “I just happen to have a jar of peaches,” she would chime to my delight and nothing goes better with Granny’s waffles than her peaches. Mom had a great tradition of making muffins to go with dinner. Our staple meal seemed to be steak and potatoes and muffins. The muffin part was ok, but the real goods came in preparing them. Licking the bowl and spatula was always my duty/treat and I was both willing and wanting. Somehow carrots had a perfect symmetrical shape in the tub of water at Granny’s house. Baby carrots did not interest her in the least and why would they when she could make crispy squares out of the long roots. I never quite understood why she placed them in a tub of water in the fridge but without fail, they were the best carrots and perfect munchies…when she was out of ice oatmeal raising cookies. The simple desserts came from my mother who new just when to whip up a box of strawberry Jell-O or vanilla pudding. We would prepare it in a Tupperware container, so once lidded, I could shake the pudding for ten minutes while she finished dinner. Whisks were a weird tool in my mind and didn’t provide half the fun or licking surface as the Tupperware.
These fond memories also conjure the lessons so subtly and maybe without any intention stuck in my brain over these twenty some years. I can’t say either mother was a gourmet; they got the job done and kept our tame pallets satisfied. But each had their special way of doing things and creating celebration out of the mundane of moments. If the meat ended up more well-done than my brother’s baseball mitt, my grandma wouldn’t think a thing of it. Pass the A1 or 57 Sauce, butter your potato and oh wait, SAVE ROOM FOR APPLE PIE. My mother would often bring out her Betty Crocker trophy she had earned back in home-ec or somewhere before becoming a cooking wife. If things were great, she would only have to point as if to say, “Betty doesn’t lie.” And if the food lacked a little or lotta something, the trophy would reassure us all that the mistake was a fluke. Pass the muffins.
I like celebrating with my mom, and though my grandma knows the real recipe of Angel’s Food cake now that she’s joined the crowd, I believe her enthusiasm for life lives on in me. I cut carrots the same and smile with each bite of peach. Every time I get the itch to travel, I know she would back me, stating that traveling is the best sort of education. While my mom continues to master La Cocina con Señora Betty in Ecuador, I’ll continue to use our common Girl Scout ideas to use what we have in creative and functional ways. And I’ll be sure to celebrate life’s small accomplishments with a cup of pudding or York peppermint patty, hoisting up a Betty Crocker trophy only to reaffirm what she and I already know.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Granny June.
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