My mother hated Mother's Day. I was never quite sure why. It just frustrated us to no end. No matter what we did there was always that faint look of tolerance just peeking through her pleasant facade.
My mother was a creature of habi.t, exquisite taste and perfection. She didn't like disruption. She liked things just so, she knew the best way, and she enjoyed getting things done. Yes, she also liked being in control. On Mother's Day, she had to relinquish the helm, not something that came easily to her.
I finally realized that I should indulge my mother's fine habits, do it routinely and perfectly, something she could come to count on For Mother's Day, she came to look forward to an extra large container of L'Occitaine's ultra rich body cream from me. A few weeks before she would casually mention she was running low. That's how I knew it was a success.
For her birthday, at some point I hit upon just the right shade of Chanel lipstick. The following year, a few weeks before her day, she mentioned she was running low and what a pretty color. Another success.
Christmas took me ages to conquer. It was only a few years before her death that I hit upon the mother lode, so to speak! Pumpkin pie.
My mother was famous for her pies -- apple, blueberry and mincemeat along with chocolate cream and butterscotch pudding pies. Her crust was made with lard. She rolled it incredibly thin and it was always flaky and tenderly crisp.
Once, not all that long ago, while discussing my Thanksgiving menu with my mom, I mentioned pumpkin pie and she just kvelled.
Oh, I love pumpkin pie!
You do? But you've never made it, Mom.
Your father doesn't like them.
(That tells you a lot about my mother.)
Oh gosh, Mom, I make them all the time -- bourbon pumpkin, maple pumpkin, brandy spiced pumpkin, and more.
So that was it. I could check her Christmas present off my list every year.
I still remember her face when I brought the very first pumpkin pie I made for her. She was so delighted. I put it in the kitchen pantry, just where she said to put it.
Later that evening I happened to pass through the kitchen where I found my brother-in-law literally devouring my mother's pumpkin pie.
Put that pie down, Thom, that's my mother's.
It's delicious, he said, as he continued to eat it directly out of the pan.
Thom, stop it, I'm serious. I made that for my mother. It's her pie.
Too bad, it's too good.
He continued to eat.
His wife/my sister came in.
Barbara, tell Thom to stop eating Mom's pie!
I was really getting irked at this point.
Oh, what kind is it? She asked.
It's the pumpkin pie I made for Mom!
I was nearly shouting.
Pumpkin is Thom's favorite, she said sweetly.
I wanted to wring her neck.
I don't give a freak about Thom or what he likes. That is my mother's Christmas present. Put it down right now or else I am going to go and tell Mom right now. That's her pie.
(Can you imagine this? I must have been at least 45 years old, threatening to tell on my sister! How ridiculous! Well, at least it worked.)
He finally put it down.
It was more than half eaten.
Thom loves pumpkin pie, she said incredulously as if he were some long suffering soul being deprived of a mere morsel.
I don't give a flip, I made that for Mom. Stay the hell away from it. You're a pig.
I took the pie and covered it.
After they left the kitchen, I hid what was left of the pie and went and told my mother where to find it and why. She laughed and winked at me.
The next afternoon I overheard Thom say to my mother as I joined them:
Mrs. Scotti could I get you a cup of tea?
Oh yes, that would be lovely, Thom, thank you.
And I'll cut you a nice slice of pumpkin pie, Mrs. Scotti, now where is that?
With a lilt in her voice, my mother exclaimed, Oh Thom, dear, I finished that this morning!
Thom muttered and sputtered as he poured the tea and put the cup down next to her. He left the room in a sort of huff.
When he was out of range, I said:
Did you like the pie, Mom?
Loved it! It is absolutely delicious. I'm savoring every bite. Now get me a piece, it's right up there on the shelf under that bowl.
Miss you, Mom.
My mother was a creature of habi.t, exquisite taste and perfection. She didn't like disruption. She liked things just so, she knew the best way, and she enjoyed getting things done. Yes, she also liked being in control. On Mother's Day, she had to relinquish the helm, not something that came easily to her.
I finally realized that I should indulge my mother's fine habits, do it routinely and perfectly, something she could come to count on For Mother's Day, she came to look forward to an extra large container of L'Occitaine's ultra rich body cream from me. A few weeks before she would casually mention she was running low. That's how I knew it was a success.
For her birthday, at some point I hit upon just the right shade of Chanel lipstick. The following year, a few weeks before her day, she mentioned she was running low and what a pretty color. Another success.
Christmas took me ages to conquer. It was only a few years before her death that I hit upon the mother lode, so to speak! Pumpkin pie.
My mother was famous for her pies -- apple, blueberry and mincemeat along with chocolate cream and butterscotch pudding pies. Her crust was made with lard. She rolled it incredibly thin and it was always flaky and tenderly crisp.
Once, not all that long ago, while discussing my Thanksgiving menu with my mom, I mentioned pumpkin pie and she just kvelled.
Oh, I love pumpkin pie!
You do? But you've never made it, Mom.
Your father doesn't like them.
(That tells you a lot about my mother.)
Oh gosh, Mom, I make them all the time -- bourbon pumpkin, maple pumpkin, brandy spiced pumpkin, and more.
So that was it. I could check her Christmas present off my list every year.
I still remember her face when I brought the very first pumpkin pie I made for her. She was so delighted. I put it in the kitchen pantry, just where she said to put it.
Later that evening I happened to pass through the kitchen where I found my brother-in-law literally devouring my mother's pumpkin pie.
Put that pie down, Thom, that's my mother's.
It's delicious, he said, as he continued to eat it directly out of the pan.
Thom, stop it, I'm serious. I made that for my mother. It's her pie.
Too bad, it's too good.
He continued to eat.
His wife/my sister came in.
Barbara, tell Thom to stop eating Mom's pie!
I was really getting irked at this point.
Oh, what kind is it? She asked.
It's the pumpkin pie I made for Mom!
I was nearly shouting.
Pumpkin is Thom's favorite, she said sweetly.
I wanted to wring her neck.
I don't give a freak about Thom or what he likes. That is my mother's Christmas present. Put it down right now or else I am going to go and tell Mom right now. That's her pie.
(Can you imagine this? I must have been at least 45 years old, threatening to tell on my sister! How ridiculous! Well, at least it worked.)
He finally put it down.
It was more than half eaten.
Thom loves pumpkin pie, she said incredulously as if he were some long suffering soul being deprived of a mere morsel.
I don't give a flip, I made that for Mom. Stay the hell away from it. You're a pig.
I took the pie and covered it.
After they left the kitchen, I hid what was left of the pie and went and told my mother where to find it and why. She laughed and winked at me.
The next afternoon I overheard Thom say to my mother as I joined them:
Mrs. Scotti could I get you a cup of tea?
Oh yes, that would be lovely, Thom, thank you.
And I'll cut you a nice slice of pumpkin pie, Mrs. Scotti, now where is that?
With a lilt in her voice, my mother exclaimed, Oh Thom, dear, I finished that this morning!
Thom muttered and sputtered as he poured the tea and put the cup down next to her. He left the room in a sort of huff.
When he was out of range, I said:
Did you like the pie, Mom?
Loved it! It is absolutely delicious. I'm savoring every bite. Now get me a piece, it's right up there on the shelf under that bowl.
Miss you, Mom.
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