Home (cooking) is where the heart is

My mouth watered the entire drive home. Tucked into a collapsible crate, nestled into an old cotton tan blanket with the lid secured with packing tape, was one of my prized efforts of the day. The pot — one my Mom has had for as long as I can remember — contained my favourite soup. The soup no one can make like my Mom: borscht.

The smell and the taste of this hearty peasant soup was one of the few things my Dad and I both loved without reserve. My Mom — who hates the stuff — makes it full of spice and flavour. Full of life. Unlike the bland offerings of restaurants and specialty stores, there’s a genuine effort to combine the gifts of the land with the spices that make them sing.

I’m salivating writing and thinking about it! 

Full confession: I hate to cook. I’ve admitted it to many people, written about it in my blog and nothing has changed. And full confession: I’ve been spoiled by a Mom who likes to cook and cooks exceptionally well. This amazing lady, though, inhabits a body that’s aging. At 82, her vision isn’t as good as it used to be. Her hands are crippled with spots of arthritis. And yet her stubborn, independent streak, along with her farming background that never strays, has her insisting she do as much as possible, even when it pains her to do so. And so, this past Christmas, we had a conversation about how the work of Christmas dinner is taking its toll on her. About, perhaps, how the work might fall to others. I gently yet firmly told her that us “kids” could and would do it. If she wanted us to. And, in a spurt of “seal the deal,” I blurted out that I’d love to learn how to make both borscht and cabbage rolls. The moment I said it, we both looked at each other. She knows, of course, that I hate to cook. And so she fixed her steady hazel eyes on me. I gulped and fixed my own hazel eyes back. 

“Really?" she asked. 

“Absolutely would,” I replied. 

And so, at 60, my days of being spoiled with care packages of my favourites was about to end.

To prove to her I was serious, I fixed a date with her. And, to prove to myself I was serious, I wrote that date in my daytimer … in ink ... while I muttered, “WTF, have I done?"

Our cooking date day came and I made sure to get up early. I had offered to pick up ingredients ahead of time but my Mom, who doesn’t drive and enjoys an outing, said to drive to her town and we’d go to the local Co-Op together. I picked her and her list up and off we went. She debated on what meat with bones to get. On which sour cabbage heads to get for the cabbage rolls (medium size or you’re “cutting every damn leaf in half.”) We selected everything off her list. And back to her home we went. 

I will readily admit a few decades ago, I lacked the patience needed to learn to cook the way my Mom cooks: by sight, instinct and improvisation. It would’ve frustrated me to no end no to have exact ingredients with exact measurements. Yet, as we plopped the short ribs (with bones), chopped onion and water into the soup pot, I was going to learn that there’s more skill when you try what sounds good and see what happens.

The first test was salt and pepper. “How much?” I asked. “Until you think it’s enough,” she replied. I stood there, tops off the shakers and looked at her for a long minute. With a long, slow inhale — and exhale — I smiled and said OK. She grinned at my response, showed a little mercy and said, “ I go light with salt and pepper. You can always add more but it’s hard to take it away.” And so, I pour salt into the palm of my hand and sprinkled it in. Pepper next. And then, with a lifetime of knowledge, she kept handing me spices to add. I knew it would be futile to ask how much after my initial query and so I didn’t. I just poured until I thought it was “enough” into the palm of my hand and sprinkled into the pot. 

With my compliance, my Mom relaxed. What does it matter if there’s no exact measurement to write down? What does it matter if my “enough “ and her “enough” are different? I’m spending time with my Mom in her kitchen. We are laughing and gossiping and acting like women half our age; in fact, acting like we were decades ago and who we’ve always been. The borscht didn’t have to be perfect by recipe. It would be perfect because making it was a continuation of generations.

While the soup was boiling and simmering, we began to make cabbage rolls. She painstakingly taught me about the leaves on a sour head of cabbage. About her own mixture for the filling. And then we began the labour-intensive process of cutting leaves, filling leaves and rolling them.

I will admit my blinders were on about the amount of work it took to make them. And about the guilt I felt taking her for granted by helping myself to some when she said I could, not knowing how much time it takes to make them. I was humbled and grateful by how she gifted them to me without complaint or comment, without ever asking for help.

We made a small roaster full of cabbage rolls for me to take home, bake and freeze. And we finished the borscht with the beets, cabbage, cream and vinegar. The cooking was an unqualified success.

But while it was about the cooking, it wasn’t about the cooking. It was about spending time with my Mom. I’m lucky. I get to hang out with her often and we usually go for lunch and on outings. It’s always fun, always one of my favourite ways to spend time. And this woman — who is beautiful inside and out — has been my closest friend for my whole life. We’ve travelled together. We’ve shared so many moments and secrets. So much laughter and pain. She was a young Mom, just 22 when she had me, and often I felt like we were sisters. 

As we age and change, what we do together changes. And now, nestled in her warm, bright kitchen, we still share secrets and moments but they different. It’s no longer cold beers on a Mexican beach but grating beets for borscht in the first home she’s ever owned on her own. 

My drive home was in an SUV with food created with love with the woman I love the most in this world. My belly will be full in the months to come. My heart will be full forever. 

I love you Mom (even if you won’t read my blog. I might have to sit on you and read it to you.)