I didn't cry

I didn’t cry when my mother died. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Maybe some mothers don’t deserve tears when they die—I don’t know. And if she knew I didn’t cry, it would play into one of her favorite narratives. 

She’d say, “you see, Aunt Nettie’s kids worship the ground she walks on. They kiss her ass every chance they get. But my ungrateful kids don’t even cry when I die.”

Of course, if we had a funeral (we didn’t) she’d be horrified if we didn’t at least pretend to cry. With Mom, it was always more important how things looked than how they really were.

My husband says to try and remember good things about her. Ok, so here’s one—the little terror could cook. Man, could she cook. I mean, she could take a piece of cardboard, sauté it with a little garlic and oil, throw in butter, salt, parmesan cheese and—the secret ingredient, I’m convinced—ashes from the cigarette that dangled from her mouth, and it would be the tastiest thing you ever ate.

When you went to her house, the first thing she’d ask is, “Did you eat?” Then she’d recite the contents of the refrigerator:

“I have cold cuts—I could make you a nice sandwich.”

“No, Ma, I’m good.”

 “Well, I have eggs—I’ll make peppers and eggs--with some leftover sausage.”

 “No really Ma…”

“I have Danish left from last night—you want a piece of Danish—it was delicious.”

 “Really Mom, I just ate. I’m not hungry,” I’d insist.

 “Ok, I’ll make coffee and you’ll have a little Danish.” Discussion over.

Actually, my fondest memories of her were when we cooked together. I watched her as she moved deftly through the kitchen, giving me little things to do. Everything she made was from memory, never a written recipe. 

Don’t be afraid to use salt, she’d say, “it’s what makes the food taste good.” Or, “When you fold, you come up gently from the bottom. You don’t want to break down the cream.” Then she’d let me try, sometimes guiding my hand and making encouraging sounds. It was the closest thing to praise I ever heard from her.

When my brother and I were 10, she went “away” for a while. She had been spending her days in bed, getting up only to cook for us and Dad. Every night there was a meal—not a TV dinner mind you. A meal consisting of some kind of meat, two vegetables and a fresh salad dressed with oil and vinegar. We didn’t talk much during dinner. And if Dad said anything, she was generally mean to him. Then she’d retreat back to the bedroom saying she had a bad back. 

When we found her on the floor crying uncontrollably one morning, we called a neighbor. “I think her back must be really bad,” I said through tears, “she won’t get up.” Then she left for a while. I did my best to fill in while she was gone. I knew that getting a good meal on the table was the most important thing, so I put all my training to good use. 

When she got home, things were better, and they weren’t. In the years that followed, we had many good times though—she had a quick wit and laughed easily when she was in a good mood. And most of what I remember—the good things—revolve around food.

 Sundays always started with the smell of garlic frying in olive oil. We all gathered at the table at 3:00 sharp for suppers of pasta, roasted meat and potatoes, sausage and peppers or one of her other delicacies. The grownups lingered at the table for hours eating fruit and nuts, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.

Of course, she also had specific holiday traditions--she’d make us the most succulent leg of lamb at Easter, corned beef and cabbage for St Patrick’s Day; turkey stuffed with Italian sausage and rice at Thanksgiving. And Christmas was nothing sort of a feast—she’d prepare for weeks and then feed us course after course. 

We’d mock complaints: “Ma, you’re killing me--I can’t eat another bite,” and then gorge some more. 

And we would lavish her with praise. “This is the best you ever made,” Dad would say. 

“Ma, you outdid yourself this time!” She would take it all in feigning humility— “it was nothing,” she’d say, with a wave of her hand, “just something I threw together.” 

My favorite thing to make with her was eggplant parmigiana (not “parm”). The layers of fried eggplant, salty, gooey cheese and tomato sauce still remind me of her. We’d lay out two plates—one with whisked eggs and the other fragrant breadcrumb. Then we’d carefully slice the eggplant (“the slices need to be uniform, she’d say, “so they all cook evenly”), dip each disk in egg and then dredge it in the breadcrumb before frying in hot oil. By the time we were done, our fingers would be caked with egg and breadcrumb. And somehow, there was always just enough egg and breadcrumb left over to mix up and fry into a pancake—that’s what she called it. We’d share it—her with her coffee and cigarette and me with a coke. She’d tell me how much I took after her and how I was her good girl. She seemed happy in those moments.

Years later—after things had become very tense between us—she told me she hated me. I had forced them to move closer (into a lovely home, mind you) but the loss of independence she felt was all consuming and it filled her with rage. She often tried to reject my attempts to help her knowing full well that she was completely dependent on me. And she hated it. 

In those days she couldn’t cook anymore but sometimes my husband and I would go over and cook for her. “You need to lower that pot!” she’d yell from her perch at the kitchen table, “it needs to simmer not boil!”.  Or “stop kneading it already, you’re gonna make it tough as shoe leather!”

Just before she died—as we were arranging for Hospice care, she opened her eyes from a nap one afternoon and said abruptly, “you know I don’t say it much, but I am proud of you. You do know that don’t you?” I guess I did.

I made eggplant parmigiana for my family the other night. I set out two plates, one with egg and one with breadcrumb and dredged the carefully sliced eggplant through them. When I was finished, I ate the egg and breadcrumb pancake alone. And thought of Mom.