I haven’t written much recently—or cooked for that matter.  My mother passed away shortly after the New Year, and not much of what I normally love to do has felt particularly appealing.  I’ve basically been going through the motions of life.  And just barely.  When you’ve focused on unimaginable things, like dosing morphine, one day, then written obituaries and shopped for burial urns the next, eating will strike you as downright trivial.  Even if you know you really should.

Mom was a strong force in our lives—and in so many others’ too.  She was the unusual person who knew the postal carrier as well as the house painter and the electrician who came to install a new light fixture only last week.  Actually knew them.  She made connections wherever she went:  on planes, in the grocery store checkout line, even at the oncologist’s office, of all places.  A more social creature is difficult to imagine, and as children, we often wondered how to get a word in.  Now that she’s gone, there will be endless opportunities.  More than we care to imagine.

I find myself wandering into the kitchen finally, after weeks away.  It feels right, since this is the place where I make sense of things—forge order and peace in my brain while simultaneously destroying as much in the room, in a chaotic mash-up of bowls, measuring cups and ingredients that leads to something beautiful.  I’m ready for that now.  As I stir and chop, my mind wanders.  I remember.  And at the same time, find a way to move forward.  I’ll start with this meal.

I know Mom would approve.  She wasn’t really much of a cook, though she still fed us well.  Simple American food from the heartland:  no frills, but plenty of flavor.  In spite of her disinterest in the mechanics, she loved good food and passed that on to her four children—and in turn, we grew into enthusiastic cooks.  Nothing gave her more pleasure than when we created meals together—for her to enjoy.  And though she tightly controlled so much of life (or tried to), she knew enough to hand the pantry over to her family.  In this small way, she let go.  And I’m grateful.

Mom loved many foods, some rather ordinary:  deviled eggs and tuna salad sandwiches; anything Italian; soup and salad; boiled Indiana sweet corn slathered in butter; steamed artichokes with mayonnaise.  Some of her favorites were mystifying to me, as in liver and onions.  Who orders something like that in a restaurant?  My mother, for one.

This week, I’m exploring some of the foods Mom liked best—or that I might have tried out on her, next visit.  As I stir and chop, I know I will smile.  Even laugh.  I’m moving back into life—with baby steps.

P.S. Sorry Mom, I won’t be cooking liver and onions.  You know I live in a vegetarian household, or I might just give it a go—for you.  I miss you.

A menu for Elizabeth Hamilton Smith, also known as Mom:

Deviled eggs

Artichokes

Hungarian Mushroom Soup

Broccoli Cheddar Soup

Corn

Pasta with Roasted Broccoli

Italian Bean and Tomato Salad