Soul Food -- a Tribute

Mom's laughter is some of the best...

My mother stayed home with us. It always seemed natural and normal that she would because that was my world. I am almost positive that knowing Mom was home during an era where women worked because society accepted the bigger, better, "two-income" plan has given me more confidence in being home and even in homeschooling. But I won't discuss those links further. Tonight, I want to talk about what Mom being home meant...

Mom and me...

Playing dress-up. From left to right me, my oldest sister and my middle sister.

Mom being home meant that I was nursed for 18 months. It meant that I was rocked and read to and that I knew who would be picking me up from school. It meant that most of my misbehavior was noticed and disciplined. It meant homemade birthday cakes, and creating wonderful worlds out of cardboard boxes.

I think this is my fourth birthday.

It meant peek-a-boo. It meant many days spent in my own backyard. It meant three sisters who got to play, fight and grow together under their own roof. It meant almost every day of summer spent at the pool with my mother, who wasn't afraid to put on her swimsuit and play! Mom was never afraid to play.

Mom throwing down in the snow storm of 1997 with the best of us...
Even when we were teens and old enough to be embarrassed, she still didn't quit playing with us.
I am so glad.

And... it meant soul food.

The pot of chicken n' dumplings I made earlier today -- Mom's recipe!

My mother is a great cook. She passed it on to me. It takes lots of studying to be a great chef, but to be a great cook, it takes practice, patience, love, good ingredients, good recipes and a little bit of bravery. Mom has all of those. My favorite meal she made was chicken n' dumplings. I made them today, for a friend who has a new baby at home.

Standing in the kitchen, lost in the rhythm of sifting, measuring, cutting and dropping, I could see myself as a little one dragging a chair over from the table to beg for a few raw dumplings. I loved them. I still do but they're just not quite as good as when Mom was the one doing the work -- flour on her shirt, fly-away hair in her face, feet planted firmly on the orange linoleum, dropping dumplings over the furiously boiling stew in her flame orange Le Creuset pot. At 5'1", she seemed a giant to me back then. Now, even though I'm six inches taller, she still seems that big some days.

My husband loves the raw dumplings, now, though the kids aren't huge fans. As he stands at my elbow, waiting for me to hand him a scrap or two while I drop them over the boiling broth, I smile to remember mom shooing me away when she was sure she needed to drop the rest of the dumplings and there were none to spare. "That's all, now. Go on!" And off I would go, to read, to pretend, to dress a doll, to antagonize a sister. You could smell the meal all through the house, for Mom took no short-cuts. Later that night, we would feast. A casserole dish, filled with dumplings and covered in a pie crust, purple hull peas from the garden or put up from the farmer's market, cornbread. We were so richly blessed.

The small pan of dumplings I saved out for my family -- complete w/pie crust.

In my mind, cooking these meals is one of the many blessings of family. It's a time to set the idol of body image to the side (throw those model magazines out, girls!), roll up my sleeves, dig in some flour, and participate in the timeless ritual of women who feed their families. All day long, Ladybird chattered about the "chicklin' dumplin's" she would eat tonight. I scoop a healthy portion onto the plate, add some garden veggies and a piece of cornbread, and I get this:

And this...

Ladybird digging in to her long-awaited dinner...

And it is soooooooooo worth it!

Thanks, Mom, for teaching me.