Saturday Afternoons

She was always harping on me to go outside and play. Get some fresh air and sunshine on my face, play with other kids. Much to her chagrin, I was the kind of kid who was more likely to be glued to PBS on Saturday mornings watching Julia Child and This Old House, than I was to be kicking a ball around with other boys.

So she worked with me.

Almost every Saturday afternoon, for many years, my Mother and I baked cookies.

Peanut Butter, Oatmeal Raisin, or Cornflake Winks? I usually got to choose the variety, and my Betty Crocker Cooky Book was a never ending source of inspiration. It was the first book, of any kind, that I ever purchased with my own money...at the 3rd grade book fair.

The cookies were always mixed in her yellow Pyrex bowl. It was the largest of a nesting set, alternating solid yellow and white with yellow polka dots. They were the only mixing bowls she ever owned, and almost everything we ate while I was growing up was prepared in the big yellow Pyrex bowl. She also had this amazing, indestructible, wide stainless-steel mixing spoon. It was the tool of choice in Junie's kitchen, something she had purchased before she was even married, and had placed in her hope chest.

My Mother was not the most adventurous cook, in fact I don't think she particularly enjoyed cooking. But she did enjoy eating, and therefore her short kitchen repertoire was tried, true, and tasty. She had NO time for food that wasn't delicious, and the simple pleasure of eating good food was definitely something she taught me early on.

But that wasn't all she taught me. Baking cookies with her I learned how to co-create, to collaborate. I learned the importance of "process", and the satisfaction derived from following it. I've often wished that LIFE was as simple as following a recipe....

Before she passed away [3 years ago today], she started mulling over what she wanted us to have. She didn't have many "possessions" of financial importance, but she was very specific about a few things. She wanted my brother to have her piano. She wanted my sister to have her Tiffany [style] lamp, and the antique drum table of her mother's that it sat on. Because I lived in another state, across the country, the dilemma of what to leave for me weighed heavy on her mind. "Do you want your great-grandfather's writing desk? I don't know how you'll get it home." I said yes to the writing desk, assuring her that I could have it crated. But what I really had my eye on was that mixing spoon. So I told her that the spoon was all I really wanted.

"A mixing spoon? You want my mixing spoon?! You are crazy." Crazy is what she called you when she found your decision about something to be questionable.

That solidified what she had suspected for years. I was certifiable.

We didn't think she would last through the week, but she did. Man, she was a tough little bird, right till the end. I wanted to be there with her when she made her transition, but I couldn't be gone from work any longer, and had to return home to Chicago. I was packing my suitcase when I remembered to grab the spoon from the kitchen. My sister chuckled as I snagged my prize out of the 3rd drawer to the left of the sink. She totally "got it", and asked me if there was anything else from the kitchen I wanted. I pondered for a moment, and said "Yeah. The mixing bowl"

"Can you get it in your suitcase?", she asked. We carefully padded it with clothes, and hoped it would survive the baggage handlers and carousel. It did.

Just as when she had it, almost every meal I prepare begins it's journey to the table in that big yellow bowl. I soak beans in it. Mix my meatloaf. Toss salads. And today, since she's so clearly on my heart, I think I'll bake some cookies. It is after all, Saturday.

Peanut Butter. They were her favorite. Mine too.