by David Milley.
Our mother was a dreadful cook! Coming home from work,
she’d open a can of Chef Boyardee, slap it on the stove,
and shovel in some sugar, to make it special. Milkshakes,
too: milk, sugar, fake vanilla, egg, forked up to a froth.
No spices, just pepper from a tin and salt, and every meal
featured something from a can: carrots, sausages, soup.
By junior high – self-preservation – I taught myself to cook.
Then, until I left for college, I took over making meals.
I blame Donna for the crock-pot, maybe Jane, maybe both.
On Mom’s visits to her daughters’ homes, they showed her how,
before work, they could put all their ingredients on to cook,
then dish up a fine stew for their modern family meals.
Mom took the idea, and ran with it. In visits back home,
our welcome from the weary road was Mom’s special stew:
thawed mixed vegetables, chicken breast, tomato soup –
anything falling to hand, simmered to a gooey, brown glue.
The turkey bags were all my fault. One Thanksgiving,
only once, in college, friends and I made dinner
for our families. Each one made one course. I baked turkey
in a plastic bag. I followed directions. It was perfect.
Mom was impressed, so every turkey thereafter was cooked
in a bag. Mom kept her turkeys in the oven until she was sure
they were done. She cut open the bag. Steam billowed forth,
and Mom, blinking proudly, ladled out the remains of the day.
After every special meal we shared with Mom, we’d sit,
and sip a cup of off-brand instant coffee. In later years,
it was a watery drip. She’d tell us stories of her adventures
with Dad. All their lives, they lived such adventures together!
And, coffee growing cold in the bottom of our cups,
Mom listened to her children’s tales. Nodding, she smiled.
Mom accepted all our failures. She told us we were special.
She listened to our troubles, taught us how to face our fears.