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Archive for the ‘Mama’ Category

Protected: May 20th

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-19-2019

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Protected: A Promise Broken

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Nov-3-2015

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Protected: A Promise Kept

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Sep-22-2015

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Jelly…Jello

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Mar-7-2011

I found red Jello at the AH in Waalwijk… a while ago. I bought two boxes of this stuff.

Anyone ever eat this stuff out of the box ? You know, spitty finger ? It is not red anymore, not out of the box. And out of the box is the only way that I ever liked Jello.

I loathe Jello. My Mother ( God rest her soul) always made these fruit molds. I know that there is an art to making Jello and fruit molds. I know this. My Mother’s Jello molds… things.. have been in our kitchen for just a cootie’s age. I simply am too ignorant to appreciate the art of Jello fruit molds. Anyone else thinking June Cleaver here ? Aprons ?

Sorry, Mom.

So I have two packs of red Jello . And Baby wants us to make Jello.  Tonight. Together.I have made a lot of food with French names ( which always makes it sound much more complicated than it is- thyme always works in a pinch), I have baked bread from scratch. But I have never made Jello.

This is a science class. Measuring cup, the big one. Check. The little whisk ( it is also called a *garde*) , no, the little one. Wooden spoon, little plate to rest the wooden spoon and the whisk  on and save a mess on the stove. Got it.

You have your box ? Fine. At least one of us has to have the directions. The water is boiling. Here we go. Potholders, whisk.  You stir. I am really making this into D-Day.  I am measuring water into those Jello molds to see which size we will need. The Fish. Oh Gosh. The biggest one.

The heat is bothering Baby, as she stirs. Can you feel crunchy sugar ?  Oh, duh whah? We change places.

We are going to need a platter and tinfoil. We are going to put the Jello in The Fish, on the platter and it has to cool down.  We have to cover it with tinfoil, or else it will taste like onions, or something else. Got a spot in the fridge for it now.

Then, when it is *solid* we have to flip this over.

In my experience, I tell Baby- who is 11-  it usually takes 3 times before you can figure out how to get a recipe right.

We are on number one.

The Fish is in the fridge.

This is Jello.

Wicked Stepmother

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Jun-23-2010

I have always like Wicked Step- Mother. It took a year or so before I was informed of the nuptials. I have no idea why, Daddy was on the verge of doing an Ernest after my Mother died. Why would I not be happy for him ?

And Dad seemed to want to keep us apart, we could only talk when he went to take a whiz. And then we would speak very quickly.

But now, we have been talking on the phone. She still speaks very quickly, in a high, light voice. She has to be one of the most intelligent people that I have ever come across.

After I asked about Dad, I asked about her. How was she doing. And I told her to take care of herself.

She wants pictures of the kids. She had always been their Grandma.Since Day 1.

I can do this. I shall not whine about needing a new camera. A bad photo is better then none, after all.

Keep Those Doggies Rolling

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Jun-14-2010

The Boy now thinks that *The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly* is the best movie ever.

Ok, we are sortof keeping in that Italian mode.

We were going to watch it together, but when The Father and I went out, he watched, alone.

After all of my dithering and feeling guilty, the cherubs rather enjoyed being on their own. In fact, it has been suggested that The Father and I should do this more often.

Go away.

My Mother adored Clint from day 1. Daddy even started smoking those nasty little cigars. They reeked.

As The Boy watched his film, The Girl made him some, well, let’s just say small Oscar Meyer s. And he chomped on them, just like Clint did.

Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Keeper Of The Flame

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-29-2010

I have so many things that nobody cares about. Not really. I have all of the detritus of my parent´s life together.

Believe it or not, one of the reasons that I wanted to have children was that I could not tolerate the thought of my Mother´s teenage scrap books ending up in the rubbish. They are very 1950´s. Silver ink, I kid you not.

What are the 2 most outrageous items. Like you asked.

I have the brown leather jacket that Daddy was wearing at 15, when he met my Mother.

And it gets even worser and worser . In my little room of my own, I actually have the Bakelite telephone from my Mother´s bedroom.. she was 15…, the one that she and Daddy nattered on. Daddy salvaged it from Frenchy´s place, you know, Detroit, new moonscape.

I have so very many things. Somewhere, I have a full Japanese Kimono, layer after layer, including the cute shoes. Around 1954.

I have letters . I know what to do with these. They are all war letters, there is a place to put them. Once I can give them up.

Will all of these things ever mean so very much to someone else, and, in the end, who cares.

Ma told me a hundred times how she and Daddy met, when they were 15. It was Ash Wednesday, she was on her way to church when she bumped into Jimmy Dean.

They were married when they were 18. I came 4 years later. That is an aside. But before they got married, she had to go through the whole rigmarole of becoming a Catholic. Why was she going to church on Ash Wednesday. Perhaps she simply liked the ritual.

I always did.

Triage

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-27-2010

I love words. Right now, triage is my favorite word. It is a practical and cruel word. In the end, it means save the most that you can.

As a child, my favorite book was a thesaurus. There are simply so many ways to say the same thing. And I find it so interesting to see which words people chose to say what they want to say. Why this version, why not another ? And why say this, not that ? You can learn so very much about people if you really look at the words that they use.

My Mother told me more than once that my biggest problem ( her words) was that I thought too much. I rather felt like a cow then, chewing on a cud ( my words).

If I think about today, what was said, it sounds like Daddy is dying. We talked about hiding his guns. Imagine that: he could not shoot himself now even if he wanted to. He cannot move, see, hear, you get the idea. And yet, both Wicked Step Mother and I know what he wants.

All that we can do is wait.

And pick weeds.

Booting

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-21-2010

This morning, when The Girl came down to the kitchen at 7.45am, she asked me, what are you doing ? Well, I had just booted into the sink and was cleaning it up. This is one of those minor details , the drawbacks of being a Mummy Dearest : you have to clean up your own puke.

I barfed into the sink yesterday as well. There is no doubt in my mind that this is stress related.

All through the day, I thought of my Mother’s death. It happened so very quickly, which I suppose was good. Who would really want a Puccini death? 20 minutes, she is gone.

My Father and I disagree about what did her in, but, as he will not let me see the autopsy report, what can I say.

I wore a trashy dress to the graveyard- it was her favorite dress of mine. Bucky wanted to buy me a new outfit, in fact, she had 3 dresses and shoes sent to the house for me to try on. Nope, I wore that trashy dress that Ma liked so much on me.

As I stood at the graveyard, shivering to no end, and looked at that box, I knew that my mother was not in there. I do not know where she is, but I knew that she was not there. She was gone. Poof.

My Father was a mess. Earlier, at the mass, with Mama, in a box, in the aisle of the Catholic Church in Concord, Ma., on some silly day like a Tuesday, Daddy asked me to talk to The Priest…

He was a young Priest. Perhaps a Jesuit. But we knew- I have no idea why- that he knew Polish. My Father wanted him to say a prayer in Polish over my Mother’s box, the equivalent of now I lay me down to sleep. He would not do it. This was like a Tuesday. He said that it might upset the other members of the Church.

I called him a sniveling coward.

I have never regretted having done so.

I have never gone back to my Mother’s grave. She is not there. Plus, she would have rather been buried across the street, you know, where Author’s Ridge and all is.

Bucky is buried there, next to her.

I want to be buried there. I want to be next to my Mother. With my luck, they will plant me next to Bucky.

But what will I know ? I will not be there.

It Was 27 Years Ago Today

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-20-2010

That sounds like a Beatle`s song, does it not .

My Mother died quickly, within 20 minutes, out of the blue.

Here is creepy, very Victoria .. I still have the sheets that she died upon.

She was 48. She was planning my wedding. She knew me, she wanted an Indian dress. She was never a Grandmother, she never saw her grandchildren. I think that she would have enjoyed them.

I hate May 20th.