Recipe of Love
This was one of the last things I’ve written about my Mom before she crossed.
I sit in my damp kitchen and smear mustard on two pieces of wheat bread. My daughters are out with their boyfriends and my son is strumming his guitar upstairs. I hear the vibrations of Debaser by the Pixies reverberating throughout the house. The rain pelts the sliding doors as I wait for my father to visit. He tells me my mother couldn’t make it. She just doesn’t feel up to it, and hasn’t been eating well lately. I carefully cook and package up her favorite foods to send a decent lunch back with my Dad. Homemade potato salad, cheese and pickle sandwiches, and a can of mixed nuts.
My mom taught me how to make potato salad when I was about eight. The main thing was to wait for the Idaho potatoes to simmer, not cook them too long so that they exploded but long enough so that a fork could easily slide through them. It would be a skill I’d use time and time again with my own family. Back then, cutting the onions was always a challenge as my eyes instantly teared up at the first slice, so my mom would happily take over that task. While waiting for the potatoes to cook, we would go out in the yard with Schatzie, our Rottweiler mix, or take a box of crayons and color, or watch All in the Family on the black and white TV on our…
