foody bits
I have her recipes, but I can't re-create them. My mother's cooking was not the stuff of which 'home cooked' legends are made. But some of her dishes were the highlights of my youth.
Nothing exotic. Canned ham baked in a barbecue sauce. Meatloaf with cheese on the inside and the meat the perfect balance between dry and moist.
And fudge. My god, that fudge.
And her potato salad defined summer.
The very height of '50s-'60s middle class cuisine. I've learned to love complicated food and things I'd never heard of as a child. But I'd be a happy woman if I could taste that potato salad again.
And the meatloaf.
And the fudge.
My first attempt at a woman's POV. That should not prevent merciless critiques; only way to learn. Dedicated to Ginger - cause I thought that typo deserved something special:
Comfort Food
An icy glare from Gleason is prelude to a hot tirade. “What are you, stupid? This is an important client, and you send the package third-day air? I don’t care if the due date is a week and a half away. I don’t care if I did say we had to cut down on shipping costs. You should have known better.”
I face Gleason, absolutely poker faced. He’s the kind of boss who always finds an excuse for rage. As his pasty white cheeks puff out and turn red. I remember clever dark hands, lean muscles and kind brown eyes. This morning Gleason has no power to bother me.
At lunchtime Gleason gives another to package to ship “while you are at it” on my lunch break. I pull out my sandwich, and calmly set the package aside. I think of knowing fingers helping me out of my dress, unhooking my bra, of long unhurried kisses. In a few days my desire to feed Gleason to the paper shredder will return, but right now other desires suppress the anger. For once I’m really ignoring him, not just pretending as I finish my apple.
I leave work fifteen minutes early to make the overnight FedEx deadline. I think of the rumors of Gleason’s on-line porn collection I heard at the water cooler today. The next time Gleason leaves early and forgets to log out, I’ll check it out. If the rumors are true, I think Gleason will “accidentally” set a task to forward them to the HR department.
As I approach home, pornographic images of my own cross my minds eye. I think about the comfort food waiting for me there, my hot buttered him.
Comfort Food
My great-grandmother relied on the simple things during The Depression. Simple being inexpensive. Browned ground beef, beans, and cottage cheese. These were things always available and easy to get. It was the staple meal for her family of five, living in Detroit with few pennies to spare. No one ever complained, and conversation flowed freely. Anyone peeking through their window would see the love and warmth coming from that meal. No matter how bad things got, or how much money they didn’t have, they still had each other. Is it any wonder that my grandmother still makes it for us?
Oohh nice Aimee. chili and beans were often a staple in our house growing up. We always had hamburger in the fridge and a pot of beans soaking on the stove. Not the same thing, but similar in spirit.
Is it wrong that Erin's drabble made me laugh? In a shock reaction way, but still.
Raq, I was going for WTF? Yarg!BWAHA!, so as the author, I am happy with your reaction!
Oh, and Connie, the next time my mom makes my grandma's fudge, I'll have to sned some to you. It is quintessential grandma fudge. My mom is not the world's greatest cook, but her fudge fuckin' rocks.
Drabble.
When I was a kid, my mother was busy. She worked a lot, and traveled for work more than any other parent I knew. Between her and my father, we always had great dinners, but they were quick, and usually followed the latest diet. Breakfast was cereal, and my dad made sandwiches for everyone’s lunch. Now when I come to visit, my mother gets up early to bake. One day it’s banana bread, the next fresh raspberry muffins. She plans out menus she thinks I’ll like for every meal. I don’t think it’s me that she’s comforting when she cooks.
Aw, Jesse, liked that!
Bittersweet, but mostly sweet.
Thanks. It just struck me this weekend -- my mother was never a baking sort.
