It’s official. I
have become my mother. I’m not sure how
(or even when) it happened but it happened.
I’ve turned into my mother. Now
don’t get me wrong. My mother was an awesome,
amazing woman who lived through so much that I sometimes shake my head that she
even lived as long as she did (my mother passed in 2001 at the age of 68.) However, my mother was your typical
Irish/Italian woman. She was the one who
yelled if you didn’t eat enough. She
yelled if you ate too much. She
complained if I had my hair in my face but, when I would cut it short, she
would say “It looked better longer.” Always with the contradictions. The
main thing about my mother, though, was food.
She was ALWAYS cooking. Granted,
I come from a blended family and am the youngest of 8 children, so there was a
time where it would be only natural for my mother to be cooking all day. But, even after everyone moved out, she still
did so. And still cooked in the same,
absurd amount (enough to feed a small army.)
Yesterday was Independence Day here in the US and where
was I? In the kitchen, at the stove,
just like her. And that was where I spent
most of my day, just like her. Baking two batches of
buttermilk biscuits (the first batch didn’t rise enough and definitely weren’t
flaky enough for me to be happy, so I had to make a second batch), making
potato salad, baked beans (well, doctoring up a can of Bush’s baked beans but I
like theirs and, well, I didn’t feel like making them from scratch), corn on the cob, corn/pepper relish (which I made and canned last weekend) and fried
chicken. Keep in mind, I’m using a
modified version of my mother’s recipe, which is a "little piece of heaven" on a
plate. Actually, it’s more like a "little
heart attack waiting to happen" on a plate.
(The stuff is fried in lard.)
And, by the time it was done, I made enough food to feed at least a
dozen people… and there were only the six of us, and two of us are under 10 years
old.
I know by today’s standards, I have a large family. Not too many families are having four (or
more) kids. But I know I’m not alone in
this. Every mother I talk to does the
same thing. We cook like there’s no
tomorrow. Why? Granted, I like having leftovers and homemade
always tastes better than buying it pre-made or getting takeout. But why do I feel this need to constantly
feed people? Am I going to be like my
mom and continue going at this level even when my kids start moving away from
home. DD#1 is moving to college 500 miles
from home next month. What about next
year when DD#2 leaves for college? Am I going to keep cooking for six (or more)
people at every meal, even though I can’t just pack it up and ship it to them
at school? Like I said, I like having
leftovers but, in 15 years, am I going to want to eat leftover fried chicken
and potato salad for lunch every day for a week?
Maybe I’ve inherited the “show ‘em you love ‘em by
feeding ‘em” gene from Mom. In high
school and college, all my friends loved coming to my house because my mom
would feed them like no one’s business. (She’d
also kick their butts playing “quarters” but that’s a different post all
together.) Perhaps I’ll do the same with
my kids’ friends. I’ve already had one
of my daughter’s friends ask if I can send her care packages when she leaves
home. And maybe one of my kids will
inherit this gene from me, and the legacy of taking care of the ones you love
with food will continue. In the
meantime, I’ll just keep feeding my family and friends (as an expression of
love), one piece of juicy southern fried chicken at a time. Pass the biscuits, please.
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