Christmas holds all the best childhood memories for me. My parents packed my brother and I, in our matching Christmas sweaters, into the car and off to my grandparents’ house we went. We drove the back country roads the 4 hours it took to get there and I loved it. There is a magic in bareness of tree and field. It was like living sculpture to me. Once there, I would run into Grandma’s and go directly to the china hutch. I did not pass go, I did not collect my 200 kisses. I loved to see all the little things grandma had on display. I think she moved them around just for me.

My mother is an unexpected tourist in this life, and I, an unexpected guide. For a series of reasons that are far more Thelma and Louise than an 86 year old should be able to pull off, I have her here in my care. I must admit it is challenging but after a day of head spinning chaos, I reminded myself of what I do know, and that is how to mother. So we are on a schedule; there is a bed time and meals and snacks. I made chocolate chip cookies earlier today and suggested they might be nice with tea before bed. She scowled. “No,” she said. “Before bed have a cracker or water.” It was then that what I had long suspected to be true was confirmed. Mom has a rather Dickensian relationship with food. I mentioned that her cracker idea sounded rather prison forward and she let me know that when you are married you just have a cracker and go to bed……………

I hope the historical pun here escapes no one. Generations later, and this day was still chaos. Delicious, but chaos. It involved my mom frantically preparing her kitchen… not for the meal, not to cook, not to have guests… but for her mother, who was in charge in any kitchen and would count your spoons to see if you had lost any since last year. With my brothers and I around, my mom was doomed, there was always a lost spoon. 

I no longer use a traditional calendar to count the days. I, like so many of us, am living on pandemic time. Most days I don’t know what today is or yesterday was, and there is a certain kind of presence to that. Today, however, is about pie. Bourbon pecan pie to be exact. I have made this pie so many times over the years, usually sneaking a shot or two of bourbon into the mixture when my mother wasn’t looking. She always did love that pie, and I never confessed my secret ingredient. My Dad however, I believe did know, and always coyly asked for a second slice. So today is pie day , and tomorrow is mushroom pasta day and the day after spatchcock chicken day. I like this better. The days counted in menus. Takes the dread out of the day formerly known as Monday.

I have spent years perfecting the art of eating well on a small budget. Taking what appears to be nothing and make it something special. Half the battle is in the presentation. If you take time to be mindful, sit down, light a candle, put a flower in a vase, have a conversation, or just listen to some music, you elevate the food experience no matter what the dish. I do admit that in college I may have altered the recipe a bit to include a different “variety” of mushrooms, but no one I cooked for ever complained. Mostly they could not figure out why they had so much fun……….anyway, years later I recommend candlelight even if the table is set for one.

I was half asleep in a cab one evening a few weeks ago watching the rain run down the window feeling equally as “run down” from a long week of work in some city other than the one I was in… and neither was home. I was thinking about Mom, making lists of things that needed doing, and new ways I would approach her when I arrived at her house. As my thoughts drifted in the rain drops I heard him.

“I said LOVE her like I would….I did not say SAVE her.’

There was a Day last spring where I slipped. I lost my footing and fell off the earth. It was late May and I had gotten out of a cab in the middle of Manhattan. As I stood on the pavement, the city began to spin. I felt like I was suddenly in a free fall. It was lonely and it took my breath away. Who do I tell? Do I call for help? “Excuse me, I think I fell off the planet and I need a hand. Can you please please catch me? This feels a scary place to be.”

If you walked in the front door of my life unexpected these days, I picture you looking in and up and seeing me naked on a hilltop standing cruciform waiting to be filled. There is no detail to my nudity just light. Kind of like The Sound of Music but with no costume designer….(here I am putting myself out of work.) In the last few months I have become wildly attuned to doing what is right or what I feel is honest with my life. This can and will leave you vulnerable, so don’t take it on unless you are really ready to go to all the edges of what we need in western culture, or what we need to feel validated. It has reduced me to ashes. The ashes are remnants of former validation, lies I told myself, hurts I participated in or held, financial worry, sexual roles, labels that glued me together..like single mom, hopes that were mine and not God’s, roles I wished to play and missed, love I received and lost, money I ruined my body to earn, and on and on.

Living a simple life is more comfortable than any shoe I have ever worn. Shoes are my emotional barometer, but peace and simplicity have become my new Jimmy Choo’s. My ability to take a deep breath and wield a kind smile feel better on me than anything these days. I am a less is more person. I always have been.

My cousin calls me Hattie and I call her Dorcas. These are terms of endearment we have bestowed on one another to balance the lives we lead. “Calm down Dorcas, burning down the garage is not the best option here. Let the snow pile up, shovel....or don’t....who cares. I know IF you burn it down your wife won’t heal her wounded mind any faster and be able to tell you where the snowblower chord is. You will just be garage-less. Unless you think it will really make a difference and then I am in! I will come help you burn that emotional house to the ground, but you will still need to shovel the driveway. After all, I am coming over and Hattie doesn’t do snow boots.”

There is a mountain pass between New York and Massachusetts. It is a one lane seasonal road and the views are spectacular. On the right, as you drive up, is a drop off into the woods and to the left an incline. The road is windy and terrific fun to drive…in the summer. Last Saturday was beautiful. It was sunny and it had snowed the night before. Early that morning I decided to take a drive in the countryside. Giving myself a goal, I headed off to a favorite market in Massachusetts. As I came upon the pass I thought it might be fun to go over it and admire all the great things God has done.

Some cookies are made with so much love that it actually counters all the sugar, butter and white flour it took to create them. My Mother makes those cookies. Each year for my birthday for at least the last 32 years Mom has made me frosted sugar cookies. Anywhere I lived, and no matter what else was going on, I received a perfectly packed box. I looked forward to it more than any other thing. They are delicious and I can stand at the kitchen counter and eat 4 at a time telling myself it’s fine cause they are filled with love and love only.

I love pea soup, smokey, thick, hearty, ham filled pea soup. I love club crackers and seasoned salt on top cause that’s how I grew up eating it. I am obsessing about pea soup lately because my mother keeps asking me to dinner. She is making soup. Now I don’t live near my mother. As a matter of fact I live several states away. I feel badly when I tell her I won’t be able to come by for dinner but it sounds lovely and I hope they enjoy it. Then I hang up, walk away and feel empty. Mom wants to have dinner with me.

A late night trip to the airport in the pouring rain, and then another. Our tribe is being called home. We gather and form a shield of love we beg pain not to penetrate. There is food. There is always food. It's who we are. We have cooked many meals in celebration of life's greatest joys and ultimate sorrows. As I wash dishes my mind wanders through the bubbles considering this. I realize I have spent many years of my heart waiting for my knight in shining armour..hoping to be seen, saved, loved..Looking around I realize WE are the Knights...a powerful round table. I am already living a go to the end of the earth kind of love. So my friends, I will be the kind of armor that validates honor and I love you.

How did I go from stilettos to french fries in a simple desire for love? Seriously, how?..and how do they even factor in? Let's have a properly made Manhattan and really think about it. Feel better? No. But I am slightly swollen and my heart is still lonely. However, I did forget about it for a minute as I relished in that perfect cherry.

There used to be green and orange white and red and blue. There used to be smells in air that triggered a sense of hope in me; signs of life and then again it’s fading. But my celadon green has a minty flavor, my golden color has spice. When I look up, excited to see the colors of the world I stare blinded by the Starbucks menu. Pumpkin latte...pumpkin latte…Its FALL?!?! When the fuck did that happen?? I didn’t even notice.

I have a favorite grocery store. It is a Vons in La Jolla California. They have the best floral department. In the fall when the tourists have gone home and kids back to school the lot is empty sans some seagulls munching on, well whatever seagulls munch on. The air smells like the sea and when you enter you are struck by the artistry of whatever is blooming this season. I cant help but be set right for the shopping once I have looked at all the flowers. Somehow it influences my food choices. I am less likely to buy things that fill my face to burry my emotions and more likely to buy things that feed my soul.

I am in awe of churches that abound in groups dedicated to the success of married couples. There are classes and gatherings and bible studies filled with opportunity….but what about the others? The rest of the adults that ironically don’t go home with a partner and have no support whilst drowning their sorrows looking for Gods promise? The terminally lonely and apparently class less group. What about them?? My hairdresser actually said her friend tithes an extra amount for a husband…I didn’t know you could do that…buy a dude from God…..and these ladies were actually fasting for husbands….let me repeat that….giving up food in hopes that a man will drop on their empty dinner plates…Now that’s absurd. Like I draw the line

Risotto is such a simple dish. Inexpensive but sexy as hell. I always feel the only way to truly enjoy risotto is if you make it yourself on a rainy day when there is nothing but time. I can hear the rain falling in the woods behind the house and feel the arms of a loved one wrap around me as I pour some home made stock in the pot for the rice to thirstily drink and swell. We move and sway with the circular motion of the spoon. A candle on the counter jumps with the breeze in the late afternoon light.. swirl..more stock.. Like all good things risotto requires time and attention, you can not walk far, distracted by other callings of life. It can not be rushed. Relinquish yourself to one thought. The feeding of the rice. Like most things if you thoughtfully look around there will be something delicious to fill it. But maybe that comes later.