It’s a cold New England morning.  A dusting of snow from the other night still covers the back deck.  Bare limbs of trees crisscross a gray sky and remind me we have a major storm in the forecast.  Mom and I are sitting at my dining room table having a cup of coffee.  While I check email, she reads a cookbook like a novel.

“You know,” she says.  “When I open a cookbook, I think I’ll just look at a couple recipes.  Instead, I start on page 1 and read to the end of the book.”

It’s been a few years since Mom has been able to cook on her own and now, she mostly supervises (and adds salt).  Growing up though, she was an excellent baker and anything Italian was reason to celebrate.  Cooking was hobby and obsession.

Whenever a conversation flags, I just ask her what brand of ricotta she prefers  or what kind of apples make the best apple pie and she brightens.  Now, as I watch her flip through the cookbook, I want to cry.  She reminds me of a child peering and praying through a storefront window at a new red bike, knowing it’s not going to happen.

Instead of tears though, I say, “Ohhh, that one looks good.  How about we make it for dinner?”


About hereisakiss

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4 Responses to 12-16-10

  1. Deborah says:

    It’s so hard to see our moms get old and lose their ability to do things. And to reconcile my memory of the dynamo of my youth with the fragile, but still sharp-tongued, person my mom has become. Who wasn’t sure she trusted my older sister and I to wash her dishes correctly – when we had over 100 years of dishwashing experience between the two of us. Ah, she’s a pip!

    PS Your mom is the reason for my deep and abiding passion for pizelles. The first and still the best.

    • hereisakiss says:

      Ahhh yes, Mom’s pizzelles. I still have her pizzelle maker and a torn, greasy recipe she wrote years ago. I haven’t had a pizzelle though in quite some time……..

      • Deborah says:

        If I remember correctly, you promised me your mom’s recipe (the one with a little cocoa) at the reunion….

  2. This transported me to my grandmother’s kitchen. Corn Fritters in the cast iron skillet, grandfather in the living room watching hockey on a snowy black and white tv.

    Thank you Elizabeth

    ps I’ve read Fanny Farmers cookbook too many times to count.

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