Bound by Blood

Mother’s Day. It was never about me, after I was a mom myself. It was always about MY mother.  I try to remember past Mother’s Days and I find the memories elusive.  Always my brother comes to mind, he was closest to my mother, and always there for her, always the one who remembered flowers, made dinner for her or took her out for dinner.  I’m grateful that he was always there to take the lead on holidays.  I wasn’t so good at the family things.

I probably, quite possibly, most likely, have latent mom issues. I hate that. Our relationship was too often antagonistic.  In my eyes, she was never right. I was the youngest, the forgotten one, sometimes I thought that, after three other kids, she was just tired of it all. I swore I was adopted for awhile in my misguided adolescence. Ha!  Oh those family skeletons, how they dance, how they mock me! 

But back to the subject at hand. I have glimpses of memories. Like, seriously, my grandmother’s cousin’s funeral. In Jersey. First time I ever remember seeing a dead person. Why, oh WHY did she make me go?? I was, like, nine, for goodness sake!  The 1969 World’s Fair in Flushing. I can tell you exactly what dress she was wearing, the white one with little beige dots and a row of large daisies down the front, how she carried her black square Brownie camera, her straw (tres chic in the 60’s) handbag, and the sandals she wore. The sandals with the 2 inch heel. The heel that left a decent dent in our bathroom door when I borrowed them.  And ended up locking myself in the bathroom, pissed as a mad hornet at her. Slammed the door and kicked it for good measure. Yea, that’s how memories of Mom go.  The day I turned 18, it went something like this:
“Well, happy birthday!”
“Thanks, can I smoke in the house now?”
*Crickets*

I moved to CA when I was 19. Because I had friends there, and because it was the farthest I could get from home without leaving the country. She came out for my wedding. I’m grateful for that.  As I got older, my relationship with my mom got better. I moved back in with her in her last few years because the reality hit, after the third or fourth time she fell, that she shouldn’t be alone.  In the house I was born in, grew up in. I didn’t hate her anymore. Then too, I never fully opened up to her. We lived by silent agreement with no more fighting.  She, up til the end, had her silent disapprovals of me, of the way I dealt with my kids, my grandkids. But she kept her silence. I think she finally accepted that I do what I do, in my way. I think she would be proud of my girls. I hope she forgave me for my anger and the grief I caused her over the years.

And then I was a mother myself. Oh, how that changes things. Suddenly I was responsible for another life. Another tiny human.  A living, breathing…God how I loved that child. The wonders she brought, that first smile,  the first tooth, the time she got her hands on an ashtray and made a snack of the dregs. Yea, that didn’t end well. The surgery when she was 6 months old. The first real, honest to God fear I ever remember feeling.  I never wish visiting one’s infant in the hospital on anyone. Ever.  She and I, we have a bumpy history, just like my mother and I did.  I want to believe that I am more understanding than my mom was.  I want to believe that  she always understood that I never stopped loving her. I know I was not always there for her. I know this. But I always did what I had to do for her. I want to believe that I am not my mother. But then…I realize that that’s exactly the reason my mother and I never got along. I was far too much like her.  And so it stands to reason that Stacie is so very much like me. Stubborn but so very strong, loving but so afraid to be hurt.  She is, without a doubt, my daughter.  And for all that we’ve been through,  I am so proud, so very proud of who she has grown up to be.  My Navy baby, mother of my grandchildren, beautiful girl, life saver to me more than she knows,  my first reason to have the honour of celebrating Mother’s Day.

And then fast forward, I did it again. HA! I was never  gonna have ANY kids. Then there were two.  And again there was love at first sight. Where Stacie was all of an hour of labor….we waited all night for Katie.  LITERALLY. ALL. NIGHT.  Seriously, the ex’s family sat in the hospital lobby ALL. NIGHT.  And my first reaction when she finally decided to make an appearance:
Doctor: “It’s a girl”
Me: “YES!” *fist pump*
I never wanted boys. Obviously.  She was the easy kid. She was the one who the divorce had the most profound effect on.  She rebelled in her way, took a whole lot of anger out on me. And I let her because I understood that it wasn’t me that she hated.  She just had nowhere else to go with the anger. She has finally, at 20-something, learned that everything bad is NOT my fault. She, too, has made me proud, finally standing up for what she wants to do, to be. Finding her own way, following her dream.

These two girls, bound by blood, so alike, yet so very different, both of my blood, both my life. 

They’re both OCD. They both have anxiety. They change their damn hair color like they change their clothes.  One has beaten every obstacle that she’s come up against, come through and is still fighting strong. One is gentler but just as strong, has overcome so much emotional turmoil to be who she is.  We’ve had losses, we’ve had fights, we’ve argued and yelled and cursed each other out pretty good. We’re Irish. It’s what we do. In the end, the ties that bind are strong. For these girls who call me mom, I am blessed. I would not trade them for the world. I wish them both happiness always. It's all I ever wanted for them. 

 

 

 

Legacy

Over the years, especially since my mom is gone, I have become the keeper of the….things. All of the things. So. Many. Things.  Five generations of things. From the plates that my great great grandmother brought here from Silesia, the bible printed in German, sepia toned photos of people I’ll never identify, to crockery mixing bowls and wooden cookie molds and the metal sifter from my great grandmother, my grandmother and my mother (even though the cooking/baking gene seemed to have skipped over my mom, she made a righteous potato salad) right down to my brothers china, copper pots  and sterling tea service. While I treasure all of the things, most dear to my heart are the recipes.

Oh sure, there are many, many cookbooks (a veritable library’s worth last I checked) and recipes clipped from magazines, newspapers, yellowed from decades and just about falling apart. These are not the best ones. The best ones are the handwritten ones.

There are the ones in my Nana’s handwriting, writing that got progressively shakier as the years went by, but is still readable. The ones that refer to 4 “scoops” of flour. Good thing  I still have her sugar scoop, otherwise, how would I know what a “scoop” is. Hers are mostly hastily written down on scraps and bits of paper for our benefit, because she never, ever, that I know of,  had to actually USE a recipe for the Almond Horns or the Sour Cream Pound Cake or the Chocolate Pound Cake. She just KNEW.  There are typewritten recipes with her personal  handwritten notes, and who they came from.

There are actually one or two in my mom’s writing. On her pig notepad paper. The damn pigs. Probably written with a pen with pigs on it. And at the bottom “Mrs. Skipper”.  Fortunately I know who Mrs. Skipper was. She was a friend of my Nanas in Georgia.

Then, the crown jewels, my brothers collection. Many are written, in his distinctive hand, on index cards, with notes such as “Wonderful”  or “Difficult but good”.  There is his Salmon Pate, various cakes, breads, scones, trifles, Mousses, Cucumber sauce, Crown Roast, and so many more.  Some have coffee stains on them (because we all know that chefs always have a cup near by), and one would think, “God, why don’t you copy that on a clean card”. No. I don’t need to. I need to know that he used this recipe. That he knew it, that he perfected it.  My brother once did a cocktail party for Ted Kennedy. He must have known what he was doing, no? There are the half recipes that he wrote on what ever paper was handy quite literally as Nana made her cakes. Because that was, quite literally, the only way to get the recipe out of her sometimes.  Recipes hastily scrawled on my father’s ledger paper,  random scrap paper. All treasured, all saved.

And then, I carry on the tradition. My handwritten recipes that I hope I will someday hand down to my girls, and so to my grandkids, if they are so inclined. On several of my recipes, the title is followed by who’s recipe it was…Nana, Lily Reeves, Aunt Grace, Mother Medeck….there’s a whole bunch of generations and family history there.  And I wouldn’t give them up for just anyone. I have the original Red Velvet recipe, you know, the one from the 40’s, that didn’t need red coloring….because there was some chemical reaction in the ingredients that made it “red”.  These are recipes from the 30’s and 40’s with lots of butter and sweet things, occasionally lard is mentioned. I will not discard these treasures. I cannot.  I mean….molasses cake. Seriously. I drool. Nana’s Chocolate Pound Cake… I grew up on this in the summers on the farm.  Just the name brings back a flood of memories, running barefoot through the summer dewed grass to the barn, trekking down through three pastures to fish in the lake with  my grandpa, picking the blackberries that grew on the fences between the pastures, with no fear of the cows nearby, sitting on the front porch watching the thunderstorm pass through while Nana’s Beef Stew simmered on the stove and her cucumber salad marinated and perhaps, if we were very good, a fresh peach cobbler in the oven. It was, after all, Georgia. You know, the peach state.  

And so we carry on the tradition.  I have a few of Katie’s hand written recipes, with her notes. I will not copy them, I will treasure her creations, olive oil stains and all, just as I treasure my brothers and my grandmothers. And I will keep them safe for the future chefs in the family. My brother’s legacy. I am now the keeper of the recipes, and of so much more.  May they be treasured and used for years to come.