My mom
is on my mind today. I am becoming her all over again. In many ways, that would
be a good thing. I’d like to have her graciousness in almost all situations, her
light laughter, her intellectual curiosity, her devotion to what she thought
was right. And, yes, I’d like to cook like she did. But those are not the
traits I’ve apparently inherited. I got her frugality.
Mom
lived through the Depression as a young wife, then a too-young war widow, and
again a bride. She carried the lessons of those years with her throughout the
rest of her long life. Of course we saved aluminum foil for the war effort; she
used paper towels twice—once on counter or stove-top and then it went in a
special cubbyhole to be re-used for a spill on the floor. We never threw
anything out, and boy did I know about the clean-plate club. Mom canned her own
vegetables, from the struggling produce Dad coaxed to life in a tiny Chicago
back yard, and she hung her laundry on the line to dry, which meant she had
really muscular shoulders and arms. When we cleaned out her refrigerator for
the last time, my brother said, “She has all these petri dishes in the back.”
There were jars of who-knows-what—leftovers, jam, and so on.
Mom
never thought I learned those lessons of frugality quite well enough. When I
was married and running a household of six, she lived down the street and dined
with us most nights. She’d ask what to do with leftovers and then, before I could
answer, she’d say, “I know! Just pitch it!” (I do the same to Jordan today
because I think she’s too quick to throw things away.)
Today
I cleaned out my refrigerator—eliminated thirteen jars of various sizes that
held a dab of this and a bit of that—jam, sauerkraut with mold, chutney, things
I couldn’t identify. And I don’t have a dishwasher, so I hand-washed most of
those jars. I declared three beyond recovery. Still I was at the sink for a
long time, and I thought of Mom again.
For
much of my childhood she cooked—and let me experiment—in a kitchen probably
almost as old as our 1893 house. I can still see that old Roper gas stove and
the scarred porcelain sink that stood in one corner. There wasn’t much money.
Dad was a doctor, but was mostly in administration, not practice, and he
supported his mother and sister in Canada as well as our family. But in the
Fifties, money came from somewhere and Mom got her dream kitchen—the whitewashed
knotty pine she loved, turquoise Formica counters, and a round picnic table
with benches that curved around it. And a dishwasher! We thought that was the
ultimate luxury.
Thich
Nhat Hanh, the revered Buddhist monk who just died, preached that staying in
the moment should be a goal. He apparently once said, “When washing dishes,
wash dishes.” It made me think of Mom and how many dishes she must have washed
in that old kitchen. I thought of it again today as I was washing those jars.
My writing sisters in an online group heartily embraced that philosophy this
morning in our daily discussion, but I rebel. Washing dishes is one of those
things you can do with your mind turned off the process. So I often plot and
plan while my hands are in soapy water.
I
admit I was a bit proud of myself this morning. Those jars had been staring
balefully at me for a long time. Tomorrow, I’m tackling my pajama drawer because
the other day, when sub-freezing temperatures were about to hit, I looked for a
special pair of flannel pajamas and could only find the bottoms. I bet there
are a lot of things in that deep drawer that I never wear. When you’re mostly quarantining,
it’s a good time to clean out. Oops, do I sound smug?
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