Baker's Secret...

Mom had four big brothers, Eddy, Walter, Tom and John. Before the war, Mom's brothers worked a farm outside town and Mom left her school career after grade eleven to cook and clean for the boys. She could barely open a can and housework wasn't really her strong suit. Her own Mother lost her Mum when she was just seven years old and learned the fine art of homemaking at a very young age, so Grandma didn't provide much tutelage for my Mom. She thought her daughter would be cooking and cleaning soon enough. So this was quite a jump-in-with-both-feet venture for a fun-loving girl, especially with four hungry brothers to feed.

But this feet-first indoctrination paid off. Although she never thought so, Mom became an excellent cook and prepared wonderful meals for her family. Most often, if she wasn't outside in the yard, or hunched over her trusty old Pfaff sewing away, she was in the kitchen whistling a happy tune or singing a nonsense song while she cooked something up. Sometimes she would sing about the ingredients in a recipe, or it might be something about the cat or dog, or maybe even one of us. Mom enjoyed her own accompaniment. Once in a while she would even belt out a tune on her harmonica with the dog singing soprano or sit down at the piano and play a rendition of "The Happy Farmer'. Mom's cheer became an ingredient in everything she did and her family benefited.

There was nothing like coming home from school to the smell of warm cookies, hot cinnamon buns, or fresh baked bread. I loved hot breadsticks dipped in butter as an after-school snack. Pies were Mom's specialty; apple, peach, raisin, pumpkin, blueberry, saskatoon, black currant and my personal favorite, rhubarb custard. She made the finest, flakiest, melt-in-your-mouth pastry I've ever tasted. I can remember my brother eating a whole raisin pie in one sitting. Her eldest grandson loved her bran muffins so much he renamed them "Gran Muffins". Then there were the main courses like, cabbage rolls, sauerkraut and spare ribs, beef streudles, left-over turkey stirfry, skillet burgers, sweet and sour spare ribs, macaroni and cheese with homemade croutons, roast beef and yorkshire pudding, just to name a few. The roaster she used made the most perfectly seasoned gravy ever. Her grandkids even called it 'Granny's Special Sauce'. 

I inherited her roasting pan and enamel-coated cast-iron dutch oven when she moved from her home into assisted- living. I thought I had it made. Finally I had the magic bullet I needed to become a wiz in the kitchen. Sadly, neither the roaster nor the dutch oven were willing to reveal any of their secrets. Even the few recipes I had of Mom's didn't end up tasting as good as they did when she prepared them. I finally gave up on the roaster, but the scarred old dutch oven makes a decent chili, a hearty beef stew, and a savory ginger carrot soup. I guess nothing tasting like 'what Mom used to make' makes remembering it that much better. Maybe it was Mom's special brand of cheer that made everything she prepared so delicious. If that was her secret there's really no replicating it. I don't have a piano and I can't play the harmonica. I guess I can try whistling a happy tune or singing a silly song about the furkids and see what happens.

The rest is pixie dust...

A Leap...

Mom was lucky. When she moved into extended care her sense of humor and quick wit got her a seat at a lively table at mealtimes. Her tablemates were Betty and Claude. Betty is about my age and suffers from arthritis. Claude is in his mid-seventies and has Lou Gehrig's disease. In spite of their infirmities they loved to laugh, often at their own or even each others expense. This was right up Mom's alley, what with her penchant for shadenfreude. The three of them developed a close bond. Betty kept an eye on Mom for me and let me know if her appetite was off or if she was behaving strangely. Claude is a gallant, Texas-born gentleman and was like Mom's knight in shining armor. Sometimes they would just sit and hold hands. These three were an unlikely set of musketeers. 

Mom's 90th with Betty & Claude

I was welcomed into their tight-knit group every morning at breakfast. While I helped Mom with her favorite meal, I served coffee, tea, and juice to the residents who were wheeled into the dining room. I cleaned up spills, picked up dropped pills and gave the weather report with a generous helping of good cheer. I too, became a fixture of sorts. This daily ritual went on for two years until Mom's passing. As I packed up Mom's belongings, I chose some mementos for both Betty and Claude. Betty got Mom's little table and the bingo clock she'd won and had hung on her wall. I gave Claude Mom's beloved birds. She had three, a robin, a chickadee and a blackbird. When you squeeze them they sing their own unique birdsong. Then, I just stopped going. The last contact I had with Claude and Betty were the birthday cards I sent them in April. I didn't call or drop in for a visit. Nothing. 

I felt I had my reasons, due in part to the events leading up to Mom's death. But that matter had been addressed and with the memorial service at the facility looming I was considering paying Mom's old tablemates a long overdue visit. Claude must've been thinking of me at the same time because just days before the service he left three voice mail messages on my phone that went something like this;

Hello Cathie, this is Claude.
I hope you're doing okay.
I'd love to hear from you. 
I don't remember my phone number but maybe you have it written down somewhere. 
Brian has set up my phone to do everything automatically. 
Anyway, we love you and miss you.
It's Claude. 

(Robin chirping)
Hello Cathie, it's Claude again.
Do you recognize your Mom's bird?
I just love them.
Anyway, Brian wrote my number down and put it up high.
I can't read it from here.
I'm trying to position myself so I can see it but my mobility's not very good. 
(lots of struggling)
Grrrrr... I'm getting so frustrated. 
I'll call you back. 

Hello Cathie, it's Claude.
I knocked the number down with my 'schtick'. 
My phone number is.......
I hope you'll call sometime. 
I love you.
It's Claude. 

While I sat listening to Claude's messages I had the best laugh/cry I'd had in a long time. It was time I visited. I called Claude and promised him I'd come see him after the memorial service. He was thrilled. 

I awoke feeling anxious on the morning of the service. I wondered if I was ready to pull the bandaid off the wound. But I'd made a promise to Claude and I couldn't go back on my word. So I forged ahead with my plans. The minute I walked in the door of the lodge, Mom's favorite aide came running out to greet me. She hugged and kissed me like we were sisters. Maja is a delightful young woman from Croatia who gave Mom so much love. It was wonderful to see her. There could have been no better greeting. We embraced again before parting, I signed myself in and made my way down the hall to the makeshift chapel.

There was an altar at the front of the room and several rows of folding chairs facing it. The lighting in the room was appropriately dim giving it a feeling of quiet reverence. Family members of other residents were gathering. Then Betty wheeled herself up beside me. It was so good to see her. We hugged and started chatting about her hair - it was longer and permed. I asked if she was getting out as much - was Friday still Bingo-day - was she still 'Bingo Betty' - did she still have horseshoes up her butt - and how were her skin lesions. We nattered like old girlfriends. Then the minister officiating, Ruth Groves, greeted us and expressed her condolences over our collective loss. People like Ruth fascinate me because I've met so few like her who give the impression of walking in God's light. Ruth offered each of us God's blessing like a healing salve and a candle was lit for each name read. The service was both uplifting and comforting. Then, retracing old footsteps, I got on the elevator, pressed two for the floor, remembered the secret door code, and walked Mom's old hallway to Claude's room. 

Claude was once a world renowned cellist. The walls of his room tell a story. There are beautiful oil and water color paintings, a photograph of him as a dashing young man taken in Copenhagen standing in front of a billboard with his name on it in big bold letters, a framed letter to him from the greatest cellist of all time, Pablo Casals, as well as a photograph of himself with Senor Casals sitting on a sofa enjoying an animated conversation and many other precious artifacts. Claude and I greeted each other with a tearful hug, held hands and took a stroll through his wall of fame. It was so good to see him. I don't know why I waited so long, maybe my heart needed to heal enough to take that leap.

The rest is pixie dust...