That saying? The one, “Eventually we all turn into our mothers?” Yeah - turns out it’s true. At least partially.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed my mother coming out of my mouth more and more often. Thankfully, she was a wonderful person so I’m OK with that. I just wish some of her better skills had made it down ye olde family tree as well.
My mother was an amazing cook and an awesome gardener. I am neither of those things, proving the ability to whip together wonderful meals or nurse a peony to epic blooms is not genetic.
I could burn water, as the joke goes. To say I am out of my depth in the kitchen would be an understatement. It doesn’t help that I also dislike cooking with a deep passion. I don’t think I can adequately describe how much I dislike cooking. I would rather go to the dentist than cook. OK, maybe that’s pushing it. I’m not a fan of the dentist either. I mean, he’s a lovely man, I just don’t want to see him.
Thankfully, my husband loves to cook and excels at it. He can effortlessly throw together a delicious meal in a matter of minutes. I can pick up the phone and order take-out in the amount of time it takes him to cook dinner.
We have a deal - I cook once a month, and that means I actually have to turn on the stove. I dread it. I rarely branch out beyond pasta and pre-made sauce. Sweet man, he pretends to actually enjoy it.
He’s out of town visiting his mother at the moment and I’m terrified. I’ve been reacquainted with the heat and serve aisle at the grocery store and it’s not pretty.
I have friends who are great cooks. One even cans her own vegetables. I mean, what the heck? The idea of attempting that feat causes me to break out in a cold sweat.
I’ve given up feeling badly about it. If I’m honest, I can’t even say, “I wish I could cook,” because I really don’t.
Then there’s the garden. I do try, really. This year I even planted some annuals - and so far I’ve managed not to kill them. Mostly I stick to hardy perennials, many of them transplanted from Mum’s last garden. They seem to flourish in spite of me. I think that’s her influence and has little to do with me.
There are Hostas and Irises and something called Lady’s Mantle. Every spring I dutifully head out to the bed they are in, in our front yard, and clear out last season’s detritus. And promptly go back to basically ignoring it.
I like to refer to myself as a reluctant gardener. I love the look of a beautiful garden and I really wish I had more interest and more skill. Maybe someday.
There are things I do very well and did inherit from my mum. For instance, I can sew. I don’t just mean I can sew a straight line or sew on the occasional button, I mean I can really sew. I’ve made everything from extremely elaborate wedding dresses to quilts for babies of friends and relations. My mum taught me to sew not long after she got her very first brand new sewing machine, a 1973 Bernina 730. I still have it. I spent endless hours as a teenager sewing away on that thing in the laundry room of our house. It turned out my Grade 12 graduation gown and lots of other outfits.
Thanks for that skill, Mum. I hope it makes up for my appalling ineptitude in the kitchen.
I often think my mum wondered where the heck I came from. We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues, and whereas she was a petite, five foot nothing blonde of Norwegian descent, I take after my Dad who lovingly - I hope - referred to me as a big-boned Scottish lass with feet so big I wouldn’t blow over in a strong wind. Funny guy, my Dad.
Anyway, when I hear my mum coming out of my mouth these days it does give me pause - and then I smile. Maybe there’s hope for me to be more like her after all.
