Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

It’s Mother’s Day, and the first thing I saw on my computer screen today (courtesy of AI) was a photo of you, Mom, on the slideshow from my photos app. I’ve been missing you. I feel weepy today.

These are some of my favorites of your youth (and vulnerabilty).

Because I was the oldest daughter, we had a close bond. I helped you cook for our large family – your seven children, you, and Dad. You were a courageous woman and a fierce advocate for your kids — unless, of course, we were guilty of something. Then you would make sure we understood our transgression. We were never entitled to anything unless we worked hard for it. We learned to follow the rules. Perhaps, you made sure we didn’t repeat your mistakes. You were protective, almost to a fault. When I think of all these things, I imagine you as having a wire spine. A strong back. Maybe I inherited that warrior spirit. It kept me out of the kind of trouble you were protecting me from. This poem from my memoir about us imagines you as a cookbook with a wire spine. I still have that cookbook with the missing cover. I’ve recopied the recipes into a new notebook to preserve them. I keep your treasured cookbook in a plastic bag to hold everything together, like you did to hold our family together.

A poem I wrote about our cooking together and our relationship. You taught. me a great deal about how to measure out a good life.

Cooking a Life with a Wire Spine

The recipe book that Mom assembled 
in her own hand.
The front cover, missing. 
The coffee-stained pages, 
some partly dislodged 
from the braided wire spine. Recipes 

harvested from lineages 
stuck together by spilled batter. 
Mistakes. Lessons learned. The hard way. 
Trial and error. Until you got it right.
Without burning your hands. 
Without blood splatter.

Mom, a complex feast of sour and sweet,
had her edge. Bitter, black coffee. 
If provoked, she whistled steam 
and blew her top. Like when I started 
shaving my legs. Dared to wear her lipstick. 
Even worse, eye shadow and mascara. Worse yet, 

miniskirts and halter tops.
I took her as she was.
Neither gluten free nor fat free. 
Nor sugar free. She was pie crust made with lard.
Beef roast trimmed with fat. 
The crisp skin on the holiday bird. 

The full plate. No waste. 
You didn’t hide the scrambled eggs 
behind the radio. 
“You eat it all.
Or you don’t eat.
Finish your plate!”

She served us portions Dad could eat.
“A sin to have skinny kids!”
She made sure I carried my weight, 
knowing the dimples of gluten 
under the skin would repel love 
and dissuade any dream to be a cheerleader.

Mom’s soft side. Hot cinnamon rolls. 
Fried donuts, spun in sugar. 
Pillowy loaves of white bread 
hot from the oven, smothered
in sticky strawberry kisses. 		
She transformed want into wonder,

magically feeding seven insatiable kids
on a budget of $100 a month. Turning
our whines into hot bouillon. 
Stretching homemade pizza 
onto twelve cookie sheets. Mom’s back, 
tempered cast iron. 

A spiral wire holding it all together -  
These recipes of holy perfection.
“When you cook,  
you go by the book.”
I proceeded only with a nod of her head.
Learned not to overmix the muffins. 

Or bake in a naked pan. 
Or cut into the sacred loaf 
before it’s ready.
“No one wants a mismeasured life. 
A cake that falls. Crumbs in your frosting.
Taste as you go. Don’t just dump it all in.
	
Too much pepper chokes the throat.”
Like Virginia Slims do, 
so I dared not smoke –
or – God Forbid - do pot. 
She would know and rise up 
like yeasty dough 

on a steamy summer day  
to shuck and can me.
I watch creamer swirl in my cup 
and wipe another spill 
from a page of the recipe book 
with the wire spine

that binds me to her 
and wonder when - if ever – 
I can begin to date 
or learn to drive and get my own car
without her coming 
to a full boil.

© Barbara Leonhard

Some things I used to bake with you. Nothing on the table lasted for long at our house! I’m grateful to know how to cook and bake.

And why not share more poems about you and me?