Cooking for the Heart

I didn’t understand why my mother went to such extents for my family.

The kitchen had recently assumed a new role. My mother leaned against the counter stirring a bowl, allowing flour to leak over the edges and scatter across the granite. It was clear through her nimble movements that a holiday was approaching, even though my own calendar, covered in red countdown scratch, reminded me every morning and night. Her cabinets and tools were her children; she knew the direction of the grain, the offset of the hinges, and the speed of the doors. She could swing a thousand cabinet doors closed and never wake my sleeping sister on the couch, a control I was never able to master.

My father darted in between my mother’s paces, carefully placing different ingredients and constantly adapting so as not to be blind-sighted by a train on schedule. Sugar plums danced across the table. Fresh baked bread weaved through the air. Soft chocolate dribbled sweetly from the warm whisk. My mother handed me the assignment of making a cake. We both knew it was her who would really create the cake. I was simply along for the ride. I smiled at the gesture, differences didn’t matter. I was ten and I sat still, carefully comprehending all in front of me as if I was meeting a person for the first time. Together, we gently placed the cake into the oven and made a wish. The days that followed would be better days of the year.

My family is scattered, in more ways than one. Much of my mother’s family resides in the gentle plains of Kentucky. They follow a different lifestyle, one of simpler tastes and closer relationships to the land on which they live. My father’s parents wake up every morning to the sun climbing over the mountains in Tennessee. One uncle I have not seen in many years. He works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I knew this because he always brought me toys and shirts with the name on it. Wearing those shirts gave me a high of authoritative command, something I lacked in the household. My mother’s sister became estranged from the family over time. The occasional skipped holiday soon became standard. She is an adult and can make her own decisions, but in the end she made hers and my family made ours. It was the absence of these people I remembered more often than their appearances.

At times it appeared as if my two families behaved like the Capulets and Montagues. It was an accomplishment in and of itself that my parents were happily married and free from much political interference from family members. That is not to say the families did not interfere. They did and they did well.

We visited my mother’s side first on days of family gatherings. Soon, my shirt would proudly display the foods I had already gotten into. It almost became a game within the family, to see if I was able to devour a feast without wearing it; but I was too carefree and only wanted to enjoy food. Before I could completely inflate my stomach, my mother would ask my sisters and I to put on our shoes because we had to leave and visit the other family. Food crumbs falling from my lips, I would raise my brow and almost argue that the endless supply of desserts and food were too good to leave. But I relented. I knew the position she was in and I was glad that I was not the one to make the decision. We said our goodbyes to the family and I also said goodbye to the foods and we packed into the car.

I anchored myself in front of the oven and watched the cake slowly reach perfection in its deformed, ductile shape. The edges turned light brown. I was proud of what I had made regardless of how it looked; I wanted to please the heart, not the eyes. My mother looked over and I sprang from the floor and continued to stir the icing, and she smiled. Strawberries joined the flour on the counter as I carelessly sprinkled them around the bowl. I was so entertained by the cake I did not even notice that our guests were arriving. They were sure to introduce themselves to me, my family was never known to be shy or to refrain from being embarrassing. My grandfather let out a hearty laugh from deep within his belly. I ran over to hug him.

As the food preparation came to a close, I asked my mother to sit down with us. She was hesitant and I could see the weariness in her eyes. I always looked into the eyes because adults hide their emotions beneath a charade of smiles and gestures. I knew she was happy though when she looked around the room and saw her side of the family talking to my father’s family about the importance of soil with different vegetables, my uncle in his Federal Bureau of Investigation shirt bouncing children up and down on his knee while making funny sounds, her estranged sister laughing with her mother about memories from growing up, and everyone in between who was laughing and drinking and eating and enjoying themselves.

The mesh of our families made my mother happy and made me happy. I couldn’t remember the last time both of our families had been under the same roof without someone stomping off in anger. It was then I began to see the responsibility that my mother had taken on and what she was trying to accomplish. It was about more than simply bringing families together for the sake of an occasion. It was about renewing relationships, overcoming petty differences, and setting an example for my sisters and I. I bet that if she had not gone through the trouble, I would be putting on my shoes and saying goodbye to one family only to go visit another. After this day, I remembered my mother’s family, my father’s parents, my uncle, and my aunt for more than just their void, and I remembered what my mother did.

Image: Chapman, Hannah, photographer. “Love Food.” Photograph. 2008. From: stock.xchng. http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1100035 (accessed September 3, 2009).