When my mother died five years ago from throat cancer, we
had been estranged for many, many years. For the first time since her death I
have been working through our history by writing a memoir about our
relationship for my MFA program. As a person of faith, it’s always been my wish
to “honor” my parents, but I was graced with two very broken people whom I
called Mom and Dad. As I attempt to discover how you “honor” a broken and
difficult mother, I’m looking at ways I can offer a truce, however inadequate a
truce would be for a deceased person. At least that truce will exist in my
heart and memory, and perhaps in what I verbalize to my sons.
While much of our story is unpleasant, I have been reaching
to find those moments worth remembering as part of my effort toward peace. I’ve
gone back to the more simple moments in our life, before our family fell apart,
before my parents divorced, and before some really ugly moments entered our
relationship. I’ve been remembering how we used to cook together and writing
about those days. As part of the remembering, I’ve pulled out my old wooden
recipe box my mother gave me when I graduated from college, filled with index
cards where she had written out the recipes she cooked for her family over the
years.
I’m cooking my way through the recipes for the first time.
Because of the pain in our relationship, I never pulled them out and never felt
the normal bond many daughters feel to incorporate their mother’s traditions
into their own family. But it seems safe now, and it seems right. So tonight, I
baked Butterscotch Brownies, basically Blonde Brownies, a treat I hadn’t tasted
since my childhood. I have no sons home anymore so I’m baking for my writing
group at work, a group of colleagues who have already read an early draft of this
story. It seemed only appropriate they should be the first to taste some of the
fruits of this journey.
card, still tremble-free back then, I imagined our old times together, once free from conflict. I put the
batter in my Pyrex pan, but clearly remembered the old aluminum pan we used to
cook with, my mother and I. I could see the dents from all its use. Tonight as
I pulled them from the oven and sliced into the still hot treat, I remembered
a chewy bite on a school day afternoon with a cold glass of milk. I poured
myself my own glass of milk and thought of this journey. How do you love a parent who is gone and, if
still alive, would continue to be someone you would keep at distance? I know. I
think I’ll try and bake some peace.
Love your bravery here, not giving away too much, but how you want to move past the hurt and find the beauty in memory.