Recently, my relationship with my mother has revolved around
a battle of wills that is reminiscent of the “We are SPARTA!” scene from the
movie 300. Since she is in the early stages of
Alzheimer’s, she is still capable of dressing herself, doing her makeup, and
being relatively independent. However—she
struggles (mightily) with remembering her own address, phone number, and the
names of her grandchildren. To her, she
is still mom—still the boss. To me, she
is fading faster than I can grasp, and she needs to let me help her—to let me
be the boss (at least occasionally!).
This Christmas, while family
was preparing to visit for the holidays, I had an epiphany that nearly drove me straight to panic. For years (literally longer than I can remember) my mother has been the master and commander of the dinner table meal. My mother has always cooked with pride and passion—whether it was a week night after school meal or a Thanksgiving feast that would make the Pilgrims blush. Lately, though, mom has been struggling with making mac and cheese (out of the box) and is in fact not allowed to turn the stove on unless somebody else is home with her.
was preparing to visit for the holidays, I had an epiphany that nearly drove me straight to panic. For years (literally longer than I can remember) my mother has been the master and commander of the dinner table meal. My mother has always cooked with pride and passion—whether it was a week night after school meal or a Thanksgiving feast that would make the Pilgrims blush. Lately, though, mom has been struggling with making mac and cheese (out of the box) and is in fact not allowed to turn the stove on unless somebody else is home with her.
So it’s not too difficult to imagine the sheer terror I felt
when faced with the realization that most (if not all!) of the holiday cooking
would fall into my lap. I’ll spare you
the bulk of my culinary stress (because honestly it could be a book—I’m talking
like an Odyssey length book here) and instead share the sweet
victory that was delivered to me in the form of homemade sugar cookies.
Years of attempted (read: “attempted” and not “successful”) recipes
had left me with the bleak realization that, at best, I was an “okay”
cook. Well aware of my culinary
limitations, (and mom’s newfound ones) I foolishly thought I was picking an
“easy” task when I decided to tackle the task of baking our holiday-staple—sugar
cookies.
I should have switched gears and put my sister in charge of
baking after I took one look at the yellowed piece of paper I had (finally!)
located nestled between the Better Homes
and Gardens meatloaf recipes. While
the paper (I’m assuming) at one point contained the recipe in its entirety, time
and years of use had worn much of the writing away until only hints of the
directions remained. I went to the store
and grabbed too much of each ingredient just to make sure I had enough (4 bags
of flour, anybody?)—I mean hey, you can never be too cautious.
When I got home, I turned on the oven and began trying to
decipher if the recipe was calling for 3 1/2 cups of
flour or 3 1/2 bags (I was pretty sure this was an
important distinction). I heard rustling
behind me, and turned around to see mom cracking into one of the flour bags and
carefully measuring out a cup full. “Mom
what are you doing?” Really—like she
could do any more harm than I was already preparing to do—but this was my job. I was in charge of the sacred baking task—I
was captain of the cookies.
“I’m helping you make cookies, Maddie. 4 bags of flour is 3 too many. Now go ahead and start creaming the sugar
with the wet ingredients.”
My mouth must have been open (and I’m sure I was staring)
because mom repeated her instructions slowly.
My mother, whom I didn’t trust to make mac and cheese out of a box
because, prior to not being allowed to use the stove, she had (twice) forgotten
that she’d started cooking and left an empty pot on a hot burner—could remember
the basics of this cookie recipe. She
couldn’t remember the specifics but I could see it in her eyes—this
familiarity, the memory of making this recipe for the past 40+ years—in this
moment she was my mom. She was in
charge.
I know next year it won’t even be close to the same for us—so
this year I drove mom nuts (nothing new here, let’s be honest) because I kept
holding up production. I took tedious notes
on the whole baking process that would make Da Vinci proud. Next year I will again attempt to do this
recipe justice and (hopefully) live up to even a sliver of mom’s legacy.
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