As I type this on the dining room table, the kitchen is alive with smells of oregano, maple syrup, tomato, beef, chicken, and a touch of garlic.
I’m making spaghetti for Alex and me and chicken drumsticks for the kids. It’s no virtuoso performance – I didn’t even break out the chef’s knife, and the garlic came pre-crushed – but it’s still dinner, and it’ll be on the table soon.
Which is what my mother did for us for decades, except for a larger crowd and from scratch. Spaghetti night was one of her signature occasions, and I thought of her as I shook the dried oregano leaves into the skillet a few minutes ago. Oregano is the smell I associate more than any other with dinner, with that collection of pots and pans bubbling and steaming away on the stove, and with my mom hummingbirding from burner to sink to cupboard to fridge and back, phone receiver tucked between cheek and shoulder with our absurdly long cord straining to keep it connected.
It wasn’t until I was quite a bit older that I had even an inkling of just how hard she was working to bring this all together, to choreograph the salad and the pasta and sauce and the buns. She made it seem effortless enough that I thought it was just what Mom did, the way some people hum and others flip quarters through their fingers.
Every once in a while, we’d volunteer a comment about something smelling nice. But it was woven so tightly into the texture of my lives that I was oblivious to the effort she went to to create a great dinner every night.
Later on, once I had a few terms of home ec under my belt, I’d even make the odd dinner. I think I did it maybe four or five times… and each time, Mom made me feel like I was the best son on Earth.
Tonight my children commented delightedly on the chicken as I set it down in front of them, and then abandoned it after a few nibbles. Somewhere, I hope my mother is chuckling. Happy birthday, Mom.
