It’s probably as old as I am. Of indeterminate material – Tin maybe? Aluminum? – scratched, dented and burnt on
the bottom, it has accompanied me for my entire adult life. It was my mother’s cooking pot, the one she
made beans in on cold, winter days. Red
kidney beans, slowly cooked for hours to a hearty thickness, with small amounts
of bacon grease added for flavor. We’d
eat them with generous slices of fresh sourdough bread.
Other times it would be filled with fudge, which my mother would make using the recipe
from the side of the Hershey’s Cocoa can.
I’d sit on the counter top, dangling my legs, watching her carefully
stirring the hot, bubbling brew with a wooden spoon until it was just the right
consistency. Then she would turn it out
onto a platter, leaving the pot encrusted with warm fudge sticking to its sides
for me to scrape and eat. That was the
best part.
I was only 22 when I lost her. We were just becoming close again after many
years of me being an adolescent asshole and her being an angry alcoholic. I will never know if I was miserable to her
because she drank or if she drank because it was the only way she could
tolerate my disrespect. Perhaps it wasn’t one or the other, but a
combination of two combustible personalities destined to fail each other’s
expectations. Still, when I think of
that time I am pummeled with guilt.
But then there’s that old pot and I smile recalling the sound of
popcorn exploding against the lid while she shook it until every last kernel
surrendered, and the sight of steam rising from boiling spaghetti served with a simple sauce of spices and canned tomatoes.
I have so many wonderful memories of my mother in our tiny kitchen preparing food
with that pot. It was one of the things
she gave me when I moved to my first apartment, and though she has been gone
for over 40 years now, it still sits on my stove, tonight waiting to be filled
with water for pasta.
If I close my eyes I can see my mother standing
there stirring it.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
