Mom, a photo by bluemama on Flickr.
My mom at 10 years old.
i am very close to my mom; we talk on the phone almost every day. Not surprisingly, a lot of who i am is thanks to her. She's an amazing woman - strong, passionate, generous, funny, creative... She built a deck behind her house a couple of years ago - she was 62 at the time. In fact, when my brothers and i were kids, we knew when you heard power tools amping up at 6 am, it wasn't dad, it was mom.
My mom has had her share of challenges in life - one being put into Catholic boarding school at age 8 - but those challenges made her strong, and i don't know anyone who can get one over on my mom. She'll fight tooth and nail for those she loves, too. i remember once, as i was in the midst of chemo at age 15, we went to the mall. i had forgone the wig i had been wearing (it was itchy and uncomfortable, and to me, looked ridiculous) and had decided to no longer hide my baldness. As we walked through the entrance, another customer stopped, turned and blatantly stared at me. My mom reacted instantly by saying, "Why don't you take a picture? It lasts longer."
i had both my parents full support while going through chemo, but as my parents were divorced and i lived with mom at the time, she was the one who took me to every appointment and treatment. She'd brag to the other nurses and patients how strong she thought i was, how i never complained about all the sticking and poking and sickness. (i never thought myself strong at that time, just felt i was doing what i had to; i was sort of in a numbed daze most of the time.) She was the one who took care of my daily needs through all of that, and i can never thank her enough for the selflessness she showed me, when certainly she was going through a difficult time herself, with her oldest child having cancer.
My mom has had many adventures, too. Her and my dad lived in a schoolbus for part of the 60's, moving between San Francisco and Washington state, and before that, sans schoolbus, Alaska. My mom was born in New York City, yet at 18 (sorry if i'm off on the age a little, mom) she moved to Wrangell, Alaska, a very small town at the time where all supplies had to be flown in. She may have been a city girl, but she baked, crocheted, fished, all of it, and wasn't afraid to get dirty.
i greatly admire my mom's strength of will, her refusal to be pushed around, her generous and giving nature, and so much more. At 64, my mom has more life and vibrancy than many 25 year olds i know. And she looks fantastic; i swear, barely a wrinkle, if any. She could easily pass for 45. Good news for me!
Mom, i love you more than i can ever say, but hopefully you know.
F is for food, which also makes me think of family, and friends.
We all love food. Have you ever met anyone who says they hate food? "Agh, eating, what a chore..." And for many of us, food is tied in with family get togethers or meeting up with friends for a cookout.
i love to cook. i have Italian heritage from my mother's side, so many of my recipes have been passed down from my great grandmother (henceforth known as just "grandma") to my mom, and then to me. My love of food from other cultures has caused me to try my hand at cooking anything and everything. i started with Chinese cuisine, way back when, and have since tried my hand at Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Caribbean, and the list goes on. So far, Thai food has been some of the hardest to get right, but i'll not give up! When you've lived most of your life in rural areas, you'll find a way to have at your disposal the ethnic foods you so dearly love.
But back to grandma. She came to America from Northern Italy when she was an infant. She lived a lot of her life in New York, and later Florida. She was an amazing person. If she knew my mom was coming to visit (they were very close), she made sure to stock up on my mom's favorites. When she sent mom down to the local bakery to get bread, she always gave her enough money for two loaves, because she knew on the walk home, mom would dive into one of them. Every Sunday morning, she awoke at 6 am to start her red gravy. And yes, it's called "gravy", not sauce. One taste and you'll see why. Everyone loved her cooking.
This reminds me of a funny story. There are so many good stories, but the one i'm thinking of is the time my mom opened grandma's fridge to find two eyes staring back at her. It was a sheep's head, a delicacy. It may have been the only thing my grandma made that my mom wouldn't eat.
Grandma died when i was 7. i can't really bring to mind memories of her from life, but through stories, my mom has given me a wealth of knowledge about who grandma was. To this day, whenever i make her recipes, i think of her. Basil is very much tied up with her memory, especially fresh basil from my garden; grandma grew her own basil for her wonderful meals. No matter the dish, i often feel grandma with me in the kitchen, guiding my hands to create food made with love. i have made many of her recipes for years, but the standout is her red gravy with spaghetti. It has to be simmered for hours, for the flavors to combine properly, so most of the day the house is filled with the smells of garlic, tomatoes and Italian sausage (nevermind that my house almost always smells like garlic). My better half requests it at least a few times a month, and most who try it say it's the best spaghetti they've ever had. That's not a nod to my cooking skills, but to grandma's. It's comfort food, in the truest sense of the word.
