I have a habit of changing the names of days. Years ago I started calling Saturday "Smatterday" because it has nothing to do with Saturn at my house and everything to do with the smattering of errands, chores, and events that we pile into the 24 hours between the workweek and Sunday.
Yesterday was a Smatterday, and true to form, we ran here and there, we snuggled grandkids, we pulled some weeds and planted some tender new plants in the soil, we made breakfast with kids who just returned while they told us about their adventures, we celebrated a wedding of a dear friend's daughter, and we sat down and talked about the good ol' days with a cherished sister -- a wonderful smattering of activities that filled the day. Smatterday. It's a good name, right?
Some Smattery Examples:
Yesterday, three of my grandchildren found a runaway chicken roosting under some bushes -- and then discovered her mate, right beside her, pecking their nosy little hands away from the eggs beneath the mama chicken. They were so excited! How did those chickens get there, and why would they just decide to go under that bush and lay eggs? (These three have been assisting their dad in the building of a grand chicken coop, but it's not finished yet.) Would the chickens and the eggs be okay under that bush, they asked? And we assured them that it is best to let those parent chickens do what's best for their little chicken family.
Yesterday, we decided that a Dutch Baby pancake would be great for breakfast -- a lemon blueberry Dutch Baby. My husband followed the recipe's directions precisely, and the moment he popped the skillet in the oven, he realized he'd left out the vanilla. The pancake was already puffing up nicely so we didn't disturb it, and in the end, the fresh lemon zest and plump blueberries were so flavorful, we didn't even notice it was missing vanilla. I jokingly said, "We're getting old. We better 'mise en place' from now on." That led to a discussion about the French term that means 'to set everything in place' or to measure and set out all the ingredients before you begin so that you don't forget to add anything in the flurry of cooking.
Most of my mother's recipes were stored in her brain. She cooked from memory. So, I learned her recipes by watching her 'mise en place.' or as she grabbed ingredients from the cupboards and measured them out. For instance, she made the best hot fudge for sundaes. It really is the best, and every time I make it, I see her reach into the cupboard for the double boiler, fill the bottom pot with an inch of water, and place it on the stovetop on medium heat. I see her hands unwrap a cube of butter and measure a capful of vanilla and open a can of condensed milk and rip open the bag of chocolate chips with her teeth. Then I hear her say, "You shouldn't really do that with your teeth," and I imagine the grinning eye roll that accompanied much of her advice. I committed these many 'mise en place' recipes to memory so I could do it just like she did, and it's a good thing I did, because I didn't have long to depend on the live performances for these recipes of hers.
I was 31 when she died. After that, my dad would still make hot fudge sundaes, but he preferred rootbeer floats. He always had the ingredients for them. He used to say, "NaDine says you can't mess up a rootbeer float, and that's the recipe for me." My dad did lots of "mothering" for the nine years we still had him after Mom died.
Today is Mother's Day. Tomorrow will be the 28th anniversary of my mother's death. I have written pages and pages about my mother since she died, and I find that I'm still not finished. I don't think I'll ever run out of memories of her, stories of her to tell, lessons from her to teach. Even though I talk about her like she was some kind of superhero, my mom was only human -- just a regular farm wife who knew how to work hard and who taught her kids the same. I don't know if she ever wondered if she would only be 69 when she died - but she seemed to 'mise en place' a century's worth of lessons and love into the years she was with us. And so did my father. They both 'mothered' many more people than just their children.
I hope that you have encountered people who cared to mother you - to intentionally show love and concern for you, to teach you, to help you 'set things in place' in the disarray and uncertainty of life. Just like those chickens nestled under a bush in someone else's yard, home is where we make it, and mothering is a feeling we can share with every single loved one in our lives.
Suppose we were to change the name to Mothering Day? It's worth some thought, perhaps best done while eating a hot fudge sundae.
Happy Mothering Day to you all.
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