Every day should be Mother’s Day but you and I know that’s not going to happen. Even when the kids or (dare I say it) the husband make clumsy attempts at celebrating Mom, she is supposed to be grateful and overlook the clumsiness with her usual sweetness.
“Oh yes darling, I’ve always wanted a swiffer mop. And you wrapped it so cleverly in the afghan from the sofa and tied it with an extension cord in a bow. Aren’t you creative?”
“Oh how did you know I needed a new bathroom scales, Dear? Yes, selling my old one in the garage sale did turn out to be a mistake. Here let me take that box of cellulite cream and march it to the bathroom before I start dinner.”
I could go on, but I am just as guilty. I am a crafter from way back in the days of macaroni covered cigar boxes and hand painted rocks. I think one of the worst things I ever gave her was an unfinished hand painted floor cloth to go under the dining room table. It was big and decorated with sunflowers which never got finished and now that sunflowers are about four motifs ago, it never will. Sorry Mom.
My mom is so gracious. She overlooks my many inconsistencies: how I get dates confused, my lack of enthusiasm for housekeeping and yard work. And my cooking.
I burnt the toast two times in a row this week and she just takes a knife and scrapes the off the burnt stuff. My husband calls it Cajun Toast. Like blackend-catfish only for bread. I doubt the trend will catch on. Sadly, I did not inherit my mother’s love of cooking or her abilities.
So in honor of Mother’s Day and my sweet Mother, Dorothy, I am including a poem I wrote. It's not macaroni or an unfinished floor cloth, but it ain't a day at the spa either.
I guess some things never change.
Home Made Bread
I can smell it in my sleep
A sourdough dream come true
Bread kneaded by arthritic hands
Rising early to meet the day
We wait in the kitchen
Like expectant fathers
Pacing, drinking hot coffee
Counting down the arrival of the prize
Setting out butter and mayhaw jelly
My mother feeds us loaves of love.
Happy Mother’s Day Dorothy,