Today is the 34th anniversary of my mother’s
death. She left behind 6 children, one only 15.
Also left behind was her childhood best friend, Maid of Honor, and my
godmother, also named Jean. Recently we
both traveled to the wedding of my youngest sister’s daughter. Sitting in the church, listening to my sister
sing, Jean sobbed softly next to me whispering, ‘It’s not fair. Jeannie should have been here.’
Later, all the sisters were asked to slice and distribute
the wedding cakes. I felt a presence
behind me and knew that my mother was there with us.
I often feel my mother’s presence, but most often when
food is involved. This is dedicated to
her.
Sweet Revolution
I crave chocolate chip cookies.
not so much for the eating, as for the making;
for that ache in my wrist as I bear down with a fork
upon slabs of butter and grains of sugar,
for the heady rush of almond extract
and the memory of my mother
wrapped in a favorite apron,
white Tupperware mixing bowl in hand
and an eager child fetching ingredients.
I remember the first day
we used almond instead of vanilla extract,
and giggled like we’d ditched class.
When my unknowing daughter, a generation later
suggested we use almond instead of vanilla
we giggled again as we dug out dented spoons.
For years my sifter gathered dust
as an antiquated, home-ec curiosity,
but now when I feel Ma standing behind me
and my daughter standing next to me
we fill the sifter, squeeze the handle
and slowly mix the ingredients by hand.
I wonder if Ma shakes her head
at the free-range eggs and fair-trade chocolate
of my pantry as affectations,
or smiles at these secret acts of resistance
gleefully committed with my
daughter.
She died far too young, and took with her
many secrets of her kitchen.
But one sister found the white mixing bowl,
another took the frayed and stained apron,
still another chose the sifter.
I kept memories,
and the blotchy recipe cards
in her graceful cursive hand
that she sent with me to college.
And so we sift,
we remember,
we commit revolution -
