Comfort Food
I think
often about dead people. Lately, it’s my mother. I have so many memory flashes
of her. I hear her voice sometimes when I open my mouth. It’s frightening how
much I really am like her. Whether it’s her trying to break through the walls I
had up as a teenager, or loving my kids more than anything in the world, spilling the final family skeleton, or
stoically (if nothing else my mother was the epitome of stoic) accepting the
death of my brother, the memories never leave me. I loved her in my way. I hope
she knew that somehow. I understand now
that we clashed because we were so very much alike. I hope that I am even half
the person she was. Although I cook better than her, and probably bake better
too, she did alright. She was good at: meatloaf, mac and cheese (NOT from a
box), tuna noodle casserole, brownies, chocolate chip cookies (I learned the
trick of refrigerating the dough before baking from her), and pudding. And the whipped cream to go with
it.
My mom made pudding often for us. More often chocolate. Sometimes vanilla or butterscotch. From a box. If she was feeling really ambitious, she would make whipped cream to go with it. REAL whipped cream. I only later found out that it was actually Chantilly Crème. I had no idea my mom was a gourmet baker. You know, with the sugar, and a touch of vanilla. Yea that Chantilly Crème. My Nana (who was a fabulous baker, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog), used to make Cornstarch Pudding. THAT was a treat. Serously. So. Good. I have carried on that tradition, and recently passed THAT recipe on to my granddaughter. May she use it in good health. I don’t give my recipes up easily. Occasionally my daughter begs me to make Cornstarch pudding. Usually when she’s having an anxiety attack. Comfort food. Security. Those little things that assure you that life is ok. Everything’s gonna work out. I made Cornstarch Pudding last night. Chocolate. Because I can and because I have a fiancé who loves his sweets (although I used agave instead of sugar, because I love him that much) I used my mom’s double boiler, the pyrex bowls that she always used, and the parfait dishes that she had since before I can even remember, because somehow I know if I use these things, it will turn out perfect. Call it superstition, or whatever. It’s comfort knowing that I’m using the same things, doing the same things. Sometimes I can feel her reassuring me, I know I hear the echo of her voice in my mind. Certain things are just part of my life because of her. Watching the Thanksgiving parade (no matter that no one’s actually WATCHING it, it HAS to be on), wearing green for St. Pat’s Day (I wore orange once, my father almost disowned me), "Tammy" (my nickname, I still hear her singing it, just like I hear my father singing along with Nat King Cole), announcing when the first crocus of spring shows it’s face, watching the squirrels in the back yard, so many things she taught me that I didn’t realize she did.
My mom made pudding often for us. More often chocolate. Sometimes vanilla or butterscotch. From a box. If she was feeling really ambitious, she would make whipped cream to go with it. REAL whipped cream. I only later found out that it was actually Chantilly Crème. I had no idea my mom was a gourmet baker. You know, with the sugar, and a touch of vanilla. Yea that Chantilly Crème. My Nana (who was a fabulous baker, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog), used to make Cornstarch Pudding. THAT was a treat. Serously. So. Good. I have carried on that tradition, and recently passed THAT recipe on to my granddaughter. May she use it in good health. I don’t give my recipes up easily. Occasionally my daughter begs me to make Cornstarch pudding. Usually when she’s having an anxiety attack. Comfort food. Security. Those little things that assure you that life is ok. Everything’s gonna work out. I made Cornstarch Pudding last night. Chocolate. Because I can and because I have a fiancé who loves his sweets (although I used agave instead of sugar, because I love him that much) I used my mom’s double boiler, the pyrex bowls that she always used, and the parfait dishes that she had since before I can even remember, because somehow I know if I use these things, it will turn out perfect. Call it superstition, or whatever. It’s comfort knowing that I’m using the same things, doing the same things. Sometimes I can feel her reassuring me, I know I hear the echo of her voice in my mind. Certain things are just part of my life because of her. Watching the Thanksgiving parade (no matter that no one’s actually WATCHING it, it HAS to be on), wearing green for St. Pat’s Day (I wore orange once, my father almost disowned me), "Tammy" (my nickname, I still hear her singing it, just like I hear my father singing along with Nat King Cole), announcing when the first crocus of spring shows it’s face, watching the squirrels in the back yard, so many things she taught me that I didn’t realize she did.
But the pudding and the whipped cream, that’s what assures
me that maybe we were closer than I thought, maybe her influence on me was more
than I thought. And if that’s so, well, I guess I didn’t turn out so bad after
all.
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