No one could ever accuse me of being a fashion queen. I’m pretty
sure my sisters have considered seeking the help of the TV show What Not To Wear for my wardrobe. But
clothes have never been my focus. I tend to keep my favorites for a long time
and wear them to death. And moving, which we’ve done a few times, is a perfect excuse to cull out all those
things one never should have bought in the first place. When we packed, my clothing took up very little space.
There is one article that has moved with me for about thirty
years; one thing that I don’t think I can do without, and that symbolizes my
family solidarity, my mother’s love, and thousands of opportunities to show
that love to my own children. It’s an old thing, but a necessary one.
Back in the early eighties, my mother made aprons for my
sisters and myself at Christmas time. They are constructed of a sturdy pink
cloth, edged with white bias tape. She took
the time to applique a heart on the pocket, and each of our initials below the heart,
so we’d remember who we are.
We are a family of cooks; good cooks, if I do say so. My
mother fed our family of nine simple hearty meals, puncuated with homemade
bread and rolls, always crowned with dessert of some sort; Pinwheel Cake,
Chocolate Chip Blonde Brownies, Peanut Butter Blossoms, Hot Fudge Pudding. I
don’t remember learning to cook, but I do remember spending hours in the
kitchen with her; washing veggies, peeling potatoes, sifting flour and mixing
cakes and cookies. I learned by doing, and carried on that education when I got
married and we two youngsters had to actually come up with meals three times a
day. I believe I’ve imparted some of that legacy to my daughter, who is an
adventurous cook; and in a small way to my sons, who at least know how to
scramble eggs or stir up a batch of pancakes.
My oldest sister has blessed hundreds, or maybe thousands,
by serving as head cook at youth camps. She specializes in decorated cakes, but
is good at everything. My next older sister loves to bake cupcakes and take
them to the local food bank to give away. She studies cookbooks and introduces
us to new delights. My youngest sister is an exciting cook because she’s fearless
about sampling more exotic fare, such as Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies.
Imagine! My brothers share an interest in cooking, but they’ve had to manage
without the pink aprons. And we’ve all lived in different states and regions of
the country, which has helped open up a world of distinctive tastes.
Now, Oklahoma figures into this mix. My church gave me an
Oklahoma cookbook and I began browsing through it. I saw one particular recipe
and said to my husband, “Chocolate gravy?” His eyes grew very big and a look of
anticipation lit up his face. I haven’t attempted that yet, but between
enchiladas, tabouli and biscuits and gravy, a whole new dimension has been
added to our menus.
Moving, whether it’s across town, or across the world, entails
upheaval. We forget for a time all the familiar things, like who we are.
Finding my way around a new kitchen doesn’t usually take me too long. So when
we moved to Oklahoma, the kitchen boxes were unpacked first, my trusty
Kitchenaid was set up, and the cupboards all organized. But making it feel like
home was harder.
Then I looked at my old pink apron; stained, worn and a little worse for the wear.
It reminded me of my family and all we’ve shared around the table. It helped me
remember that whether we’re together or the long miles separate us, we bear a
common love and a persistent obsession that binds us together. I looked at this
old thing, saw my initials on it, and I remembered…this is who I am. I unfolded
it, put it on and began some of my most important work.
