A Mother’s Day post, posted late. Figures right? Mothering feels like a game of catch-up, work-around, forgive-and-forget. Forgetting is key. So please forget that this is late. And now even later. At least I am finishing in 2015.
When I was a kid in Appleton, Wisconsin my mother was busy. She put us outside in the morning, my dad whistled us in in the evening. On school days I walked home at lunch time and made myself something to eat. My parents and sisters were out, at school or work.
The lunch menu was not vast when I was cooking – grilled cheese of course, says my mom; fried egg sandwich, probably, says my mom (I would walk across broken tupperware for a fried egg sandwich then, now too, probably); tuna that I was supposed to make into a sandwich but never did, instead eating it straight from the can with the cat who I hoisted onto the counter; or a full fledged balanced meal which I adored and made often – peanut butter and banana on white bread from my dad’s bakery and a glass of blender egg nog, recipe courtesy of the Betty Crocker Boys and Girls Cookbook.
The eggnog is committed to memory – 1 cup milk (from my dad’s dairy – seems impossibly wholesome and from a time gone by), 1 tablespoon sugar, 1 egg, 1 teaspoon vanillla. And all you had to do was whirl it in the blender. A thicker, stickier, denser lunch one could not conjure. It was delicous.