slow-cooker curried beef tacos with lentils + avocado-lime mash
When my mother was pregnant with me, she ate a dozen oranges every single day. Her craving was so strong, that she couldn’t start her morning routine without peeling her way through a box of Florida’s finest. According to old Greek folklore, a desire for citrus fruit was an imminent sign of a girl and since my grandmother was also a bit of a master at gender prediciton, my mother prepared to welcome a daughter on June 5th- her very own bithday. I was born one week early, but I still like the idea that my mom and I were supposed to share the same day.
Only once did my mother's cravings wane to include an intense yearning for a BBQ hot dog with mustard. My father, being compliant and incredibly accommodating, got out of bed at 11 pm one night and drove 20 minutes just to appease her. My mother said she took one bite, felt completely satisfied and pushed the remainder away. She rolled over and went to sleep and my father ate the rest while watching a marathon of Perry Mason.
For the record, I love oranges and BBQ hot dogs (with mustard.)
Last Sunday, mom and I sat in the sun overlooking the bay. She was reading Kate Morton's The Forgotten Garden, and I was trying to sort through a pile of recipes I have been trying to organize. The warm sun was a welcomed respite from the cold winter and we enjoyed each other's company while drinking hot coffee. She told me stories that made me smile and cry and feel so incredibly loved. I asked her how she felt about her first born turning forty and she started to tear up.
Old she said. But not really. Happy more than anything Nic.
Her pregnancy was comfortable for the most part. Morning sickness for the first trimester that eventually tapered and soon enough, she had a beautiful growing belly and 6 additional months to dream. There were only a few tiny morsels of anguish that I expect every parent feels when they are about to emabrk on the most life-changing experience of their lives. Would she be patient and understanding? Would she have a soft voice and be able to teach with love? Would she be able to cope if her baby wasn’t healthy?
She graduated from Dalhousie University with a major in English literature when she was 8 1/2 months pregnant. One of my favorite photos is of my mother wearing her convocation gown, holding her diploma in one hand and caressing her belly with the other. We did it together, she's always said. From the very beginning, my parents had plans to name me after the patron Saint of my father's village in Greece. Nicholas if I was a boy and Nicholetta if I was a girl. My father cried the first time he saw me. A daughter. My daughter, he said.
As we sat on the deck that morning, I looked at my mother. She seemed fragile somehow. This woman who gave birth to me and nursed me and taught me absolutely everything about life. Who stayed up with me during sickness and heartache or just when I needed her to tickle my back and tell me one more story. Who lost her husband when she was only 44 years old and who had 4 children to watch over and teach and raise. A woman who had to get up day after day after a restless and agonizing sleep. Having to brush her teeth and comb her hair and pack lunches for the day and engage in all of the normal routines she always did. Put on a smile. Kiss her children. Make arrangements to be there for soccer games and recitals and stay up all night working on projects about the solar system. Having to smile brightly when her heart was breaking and all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball on the floor and sob.
How did you do it mom?
She started to cry again and I felt awful for perhaps bringing her back to a place that she'd just as soon forget.
I don't know really. I prayed a lot for guidance and strength. I wanted to hold on tight to my children and make my own decisions and raise them the way I wanted. You were mine and I wanted to work hard for you and give you the best part of me. I felt very alone a lot of times Nic. And it's the kind of loneliness you can't really explain.
I wanted to hug her but I was too scared to move. We bundled ourselves in cotton blankets and tilted our faces towards the warm sun and for a long time, we sat in silence. I looked at her hands as she twirled her wedding band. The hands that embraced me and wiped my tears and braided my hair- even when I complained that she was pulling too hard. The ones that brushed gently against her lips when my younger sister was napping and it was time for us to be alone together for a few hours. Singing songs and reading books and eating lunch. The hands that taught me how to read and write and cook and pray. The ones that caressed my own growing belly when I was pregnant. The hands I wanted to squeeze tight that morning and never let go of.
My life has been infused with profound sadness but also with breathless appreciation for every single encounter and every single relationship and every single experience. And it was my mother and father who taught me how to work and dream and live with conviction and passion and faith. When that teeny, tiny part of vanity threatens to make me feel old and withered and gray, I hope I can remember that so far, this has been a life well-lived. A life that has been filled with belly laughs and ice cream cones and family road trips. With Christmas concerts and beach days and picnics by the ocean. Dinner parties and sun-filled vacations and oceanside hikes. With smiles and laughter and endless kisses.
Really Nic. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and to feel in love with your life.
I know mom. And I am.
I really, really am.
nicholetta
Reader Comments (1)
This receipe is "another" keeper of mine. Happy Birthday sweet Nic., to one of the most kindest, loving souls I know.