On the Kitchen Counter

If Bette Davis were here, she'd put one hand on her hip, survey the place and declare: "What a dump!"

The state of my apartment always has reflected the state of my mind.  It's as if someone raised the volume on my "YOU'RE A MESS" knob.  How's THAT for a mirror?!  Wherever I go, there I am.  CRAP! 
 
During such times, I also tend not to feed myself properly. It's only after returning from my weekly visit to the Inwood Farmers' Market that I realize how I've not been nourishing myself quite the way I had been before August 17.

Even doing the laundry feels like an effort.

All this lack (no clean clothes, no food other than science experiments in the fridge, no order) is a constant reminder that I'm in pain, I don't know what to do with myself, everything feels like an effort, and my Mom isn't here to make it better.

Oh, goody - an opportunity to delve deeper. 

Nourish and nurture derive from the Old French and Latin word "to feed, nurse, foster, support, preserve," "to suckle".  How apt, then, that the death of my Mom would result in a self-nourishment crisis.  No surprise that nursery is also a derivative since I feel like a big fat baby!  I simply do not want to take care of myself ... myself.

Some of my best memories of my Mom and I are of days when she'd be cooking in our little galley kitchen in Douglaston and I'd hop up on the counter (which I did through my forties and probably still do with friends when I get the chance).  She'd cook dinner for us and we'd talk about everything.  I'd tell her about school, ballet class; she'd tell me about work and what she had planned for us for the weekend.  I'd ask what her favorite color was, she'd ask what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Both questions of equal importance.    Thus, nurturing and nourishment are inextricably linked forever for me. 

Maybe the lesson for me now is tenderness and self-nurturance; to take everything I learned from her about how to do that and learn to do it for myself or go visit a friend's kitchen (consider yourselves forewarned). 

So I find that I begin returning to my kitchen to cook the things Mom made for me that would make me feel better.  Chopping onions, I can still talk to her as the smells of comfort fill my home.   

Yes, Mom, I know . . . browning the meat before putting it in the crock pot makes a better pot roast (just please don't make me make those PEAS!).  I'll do that while the laundry's in the dryer.

Funeral arrangements are like peas??

I didn't listen, but the information got through anyway.

Just like with my Mom's peas. God, they were AWFUL. I mean A-W-F-U-L. They were so bad that even she would have to laugh . . . I'm sorry, they just smelled like . . . FEET. She'd claim they only smelled funny (it was NOT funny) because she "fancied 'em up" with minced onions. Ohboy.

She'd make the peas. I'd torment her. We'd crack up. I'd refuse to eat them. She'd start a conversation about something over dinner to distract me and, sooner or later, I'd eat those peas without even realizing it. Guess she had the last laugh!

Same way with her funeral arrangements. She'd insist on telling me, "you know, Connie, when I'm gone, there's a family plot in Huntington" or "I want to be cremated with my ashes sprinkled over my mother's grave."

I'd refuse to engage in this conversation. Like a little kid (all the way through my thirties and into my forties, mind you) it was like I'd squeeze my eyes shut, stick my fingers in my ears and go "blahblahblahblahblah" so I didn't have to hear about her stupid funeral arrangements or think about her dying, which was never going to happen any way so why are we even talking about it.

Just like those peas, it got in. When the time came, I knew exactly what did she and did not want. It was actually comforting to be so confident that I was doing exactly what she'd want and didn't have to fret or perseverate over anything. I knew I was doing the right thing. Making the arrangements was as easy as it could possibly be because she made sure it would be.

I didn't like it . . . any more than I liked those peas.

To you parents, my advice is: don't give up on the peas or making sure your kids know what to do and what you want. They may not like it, but they'll thank you for it.