Nourishing Feasts

This is a scene written for a class exercise that someday may be part of the Lilac Time story.

When I think about that sad, lost summer, what I remember most often is Aunt Lou in the kitchen, cooking and baking with a ferocity that filled us with awe and a little fear. As she chopped, mashed, sliced, pounded, measured, poured, stirred, and whipped, it was as if she believed there was a secret ingredient somewhere in that kitchen that once found and added to any recipe would magically become a cure not just for mama, so far away in the hospital, but for the three of us—mama’s forlorn and sorrowful children, aching with loneliness at her absence and scared that we might never see her again.

Aunt Lou served us like royalty all summer from breakfast banquets to luncheon feasts and four-course dinners. She was determined to bake and cook her way out of the crisis, insistent that whatever else we might be feeling, whatever else the future held for us, three times a day we would forget our worries and cares, our doubts and insecurities, our loneliness and sadness when we gathered at the table in the kitchen.

Each morning, mounds of fluffy scrambled eggs laced with the green and red confetti of chopped peppers, spicy homemade sausages as big around as firecrackers and just as hot, homemade strawberry jam filled with sweet chunks of berries, and a big basket of homemade biscuits greeted us. The biscuits were the best—we could smell that fresh-baked aroma all the way upstairs—and visions of butter, honey and jam melting and oozing over the sides made us hop out of bed and scramble down the stairs, our mouths already savoring the cavalcade of tastes awaiting us on the table.

She called the biscuits her “jigger” biscuits because she cut them out of the dough using papa’s whiskey shot glass or “jigger.” She said the shot glass was just the right size—about one-and-a-half inches in diameter—and she knew what she was talking about because you could load one of those biscuits up with butter or jam and pop it in your mouth in one bite. You could eat them so fast it was like eating popcorn—grab a handful, pick four or five up at a time, and just munch away.

Aunt Lou hovered over us while we ate, leading us always in the Lord’s Prayer before breakfast, then inspecting our appetites, correcting our manners, searching for clues in our demeanor or talk that might reveal a child in need of some special attention or one with a secret that needed an outlet or, more often, one, more specifically one like me, with plans for the day that might involve more mischief than she was willing to put up with.

For Aunt Lou was a stern disciplinarian. She was a good Christian woman and wore her faith like a shiny yellow rain slicker, bright and impenetrable, glistening with purpose. Her good intentions resounded in the rhythmic stamp of her staunch stride. She didn’t walk, she marched and the steady swinging of her arms testified to the constancy of her conviction.

Religion was her shield, deflecting the wayward arrows of doubt or disbelief. It was also her sword, a weapon slashing at all our considerable sins. Like a native guide hacking through the jungle overgrowth, Aunt Lou carved a path for us to follow that summer, whacking away at our lapses of faith and misbehavior. If the path was sometimes too narrow for our youthful spirits, if her vigilant supervision was often fierce and uncompromising, so much stricter than the gentle ways of our mother, if we were filled more often with fear of Aunt Lou than the love of God, still we knew with unquestionable certainty that her affection for us was deep and her devotion to us unshakeable.

And that infallible knowledge, that sureness that never would she abandon us, never would she waver, provoked our worst behavior. We were holy terrors that summer. Perhaps we needed a way to exercise our fears and worries about our mother, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, we bedeviled, plagued, tested, and tormented Aunt Lou daily. Yet, whatever her frustrations with our tricks and deceits, she met us each morning in the kitchen, dressed in her faith and her apron, and fed us those fat spicy sausages and homemade biscuits along with generous servings of duty, charity, honor, faith, hope, and courage. She nourished not only our bodies but our spirits and kept us from crumbling like over-baked cookies under the weight of worry and sadness that we carried.

Smiling Meditation

It started with a smiling meditation. Breathe in, breathe out and make a slight smile, breathe in, breathe out and make a broader smile. A few minutes of this and Veronica was a changed woman. It was like magic. She was coming back to life; she could see possibilities. She felt strong, calm, and loving and she decided to try again. She felt it might work this time. She was so lonely, so alone, and she missed Brian. She missed him so much and she wanted him back.

She patted her slightly bulging stomach and loving cooed, “He’ll come back baby. He’ll come back. You’ll see, we won’t be alone I won’t let you be alone.”

Veronica sat down at the computer and started to type. She typed and deleted, typed and backspaced, typed and laughed and cried and typed, her eyes focused, almost boring into the screen, her teeth alternately biting her lip and slamming together to chatter quickly making a hollow chattering sound as if she were cold. Her tongue moved its way from lower to upper until her lips, wet, folded in on each other rubbing up and down. Occasionally all facial movement stopped as her ideas intensified and her fingers flew across the keyboard.

She read the letter out loud with great emotion. At the end tears were flowing down her pale cheeks, and she decided, as she allowed the tears to remain on her face and dry into her skin that the letter was perfect. She was so excited about that thought of Brian reading the letter that she seriously considered e-mailing it, but she thought better of it assuming that Brian might just delete it; but a snail mail letter – maybe put inside of a nice card would be perfect. He’d open it at least before he threw it away. “He won’t just be able to see my name and delete it.” She said to herself smugly. “And rewriting this into a card with beautiful handwriting. He’ll love this. I know he’ll love this. He’ll need to see me after he reads this.” She said to herself. She prayed that he would read it, maybe he would understand that she meant what she said. Maybe he’d be willing to come back home.

She finished neatly writing the letter into a card with dancing cats on the front; she was laughing and feeling better than she had in weeks. She pulled out an old file of stickers and plastered hearts and stars on the outside of the envelope; she filled the envelope with multi-colored confetti. Some said Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and some said love, peace, and hello. She thought he’d find this cute, and funny, and she thought it would make him remember the good times and decide to come back. She loved him so much. She was miserable without him. Veronica had been devastated when Brian left, but even more so when the police delivered the notice. The thought almost made her change her mind, “But he could” she thought “choose to come back if he wanted to.”

She decided that she would walk to the post office and make up her mind when she got there. She loved being outside in the beautiful California sunshine. She walked, or rather skipped to the post office. She waved at people in cars and smiled at kids on bicycles. She even called out little niceties like, “You really should wear a helmet! You don’t want to ruin that beautiful face!” and “Cute dog!”

Arriving at the post office her resolve was slightly shaken. She walked over to a mailbox meant for people in cars to drive by and deposit their mail. She stared down at the mailbox and into the darkness inside. She decided that her good feelings were a good omen, held the card to her chest, wanting some of the love in her heart to seep into the envelope; with her eyes closed, she did another minute of a smiling meditation, and only opened her eyes as the impatient and unkind man in the car waiting to mail his letter beeped at her three times. Ignoring him, she kissed her letter, and gently let it slide down the dark hole that held so many people’s wishes and hopes. This time, for sure, she felt. This time he would come back.

Valentine's Day Haiku

by Susan Cameron

* * * . . . . . . . * * *
* * * * * . . . . . * * * * *
** . . you, me, together: . . **
**. . a wonderful valentine! . .**
** . . . .every day is . . . .**
** . . . . spring . . . . **
** . . . . . . . **
***
*

copyright 2011, Susan Cameron

Seeds of Rebellion

This story was written for a workshop as an experiment in modular structure. It's a departure from my usual fare, so I hope you find it interesting.

From behind the newspaper Adam said, “Could I get another cup of coffee, Hon,” and Sarah’s hand with the spoonful of cereal froze between the cereal bowl and her open mouth. She clenched her teeth before she could scream out, “Get your own damned coffee!” Her temples throbbed as the stifled words struggled to escape, bouncing around and around her head looking for a way out. Then they slid back down her throat and she gagged. She dropped the spoon into the cereal and clamped her hand on her mouth. What was the matter with her? What the hell was going on?

***

Be a good daughter, Sarah. Pick up your room and say your prayers before you go to bed. Be sure you do all your homework. Don’t be late for school. You’re the oldest, Sarah, so you have to set an example for your brother and sister. Okay, Mom.

Eat your vegetables. Don’t fill up on candy – you don’t want to get fat. Put down the crayons, Sarah, and help your mother with the dishes. Keep your grades up so you can go to a good college. Obey the rules. Watch your mouth and don’t sass your mother. Don’t be an artist. There’s no money in that. Be a teacher or a nurse or a secretary, Sarah. That’s what good girls do before they get married. Okay, Daddy.

***

I’m on the rafting trip again, floating down a river in a rubber raft with my family, all of them. Mom, even though she’s dead now, Daddy, Adam and the kids, my sister and brother are crowded together in the small raft. They’re holding paddles, waiting for me to tell them what to do. Everyone is remarking on the beauty of the scenery, but I can’t look. There’s no guide and I have to watch the river and steer the raft. I’m anxious about what’s ahead and how I’m going to navigate the rapids. I keep my eyes on the river, alert for the slightest nuance of trouble ahead. I feel the current quicken and strain to see swirls of water and froth against the rocks in the distance. I look down to warn my family to brace themselves, but only Mom is there, holding out her paddle to me.

“Paddle or die, Sarah,” she says and jumps into the churning water.

“Wait,” I yell to her, “where is everyone?”

“They’re busy. They had to go,” she says before she disappears, too.

Frantic, I search the water and the riverbank for my family, but they’re nowhere I can see. I’m alone now, plunging headlong into the rapids. Close now, too close.

“How could you leave me at a time like this?” I scream into the wind. “Where are you?”

***

All he wanted was more coffee, Sarah thought, trying to calm herself and understand her violent physical reaction. He’d asked politely, hadn’t he? It wasn’t exactly a question, though, was it? Or even a request. It was, she realized, more of a matter-of-fact expectation that she would stand up, walk over to the counter right behind him, pick up the coffee pot and pour him another cup. And really, why shouldn’t he expect that? She did it every day. He’d say more coffee and she’d jump up and say here, honey. As if her life depended on it. As if he wouldn’t love her any more if she didn’t refill his coffee cup. As if he’d leave her if she didn’t serve him, and the family would fall apart. She felt the muscles in her jaw contract.

***

Be a good wife, Sarah. Just for now take that secretarial job so we can save enough money to buy a house. You can paint in your spare time, can’t you? Can you make a special dinner tonight? The boss and his wife are coming over. I need a clean shirt. Did you do the laundry yesterday? What’s for breakfast? Dinner? Would you take the car in for service and get my blue suit cleaned? Mom is coming to visit for a week, but I have to work. You two can entertain each other, right? Let’s make another baby. Can you keep that job a little longer so we can get out from under these bills? Okay, Adam.

***

I wake up on the couch again. The woman on the television wants me to use her disinfectant to keep my house germ free. She looks at me like I’m a naughty child and says, “Don’t forget, now, your family’s depending on you.” I shake my head to clear the static playing in my ears. What does she mean? My family left me alone in a raft to face the rapids, for God’s sake. I click her off and climb the stairs to bed. I’m floating down the hall. The doors are open and I look in each one. There’s the daughter, I say to myself. So sweet, all curled up in a tight little ball, honey hair haphazard on the pillow. There’s the son, I think at the next door. Almost grown now, a big long lump of comforter splayed across the bed with size twelve feet sticking out. I’m at the last door looking in. There’s the father, asleep on his side, arms reaching out to the empty space beside him. What a nice family, I think, until I realize there is no mother. Sadness overwhelms me. Where is the mother, I cry to myself, alone in the dark hall. Where is the mother?

***

What would Adam say if she didn’t get the coffee? She’d been fired once for refusing to make coffee. No company loyalty, they said. No coffee, no job, and they sent her packing. Coffee was haunting her and she didn’t even drink it. She looked across the table at Adam. All she could see of him was the top of his head above the paper, a hand holding each side.

He doesn’t even know I’m angry, she thought. He has no idea at all that this perfect blue-sky day is any different from any other. And why would it be? Her hand slipped from her mouth and fell silently into a fist on the table.

***

Be a good mother, Sarah. Pick up Krissie from school at 3 and take her to ballet. Go to Andy’s soccer game. Swing by ballet and pick up Krissie. Fix a nutritious meal. Oversee homework. Practice night driving with Andy so he can finally get his license. Vacuum the dried muddy bits that Andy tracked on the living room carpet. Prepare a hot breakfast. Make sack lunches. Give Krissie and Andy their allowance and take them to school, even though it’s not raining. After work, pick up Krissie and take her to piano lessons. Stop by the fabric store and buy pink netting and satin for Krissie’s ballet costume. Throw a load of clothes in the washer. Start dinner. Pick up Krissie and Andy. Dinner with kids. Adam working late. Help Krissie with math and get Andy started on his biology project. Mom, I forgot I need to take two dozen cookies to school tomorrow. Okay, Krissie. Mom, I don’t have any clean socks. Okay, Andy.

***

I’m naked except for a wide-brimmed straw hat with a baby blue grosgrain ribbon streaming down my back. It’s not my now body. It’s my body before babies, my twenty year-old body, tight slim, curvy in all the right places, skin creamy smooth. My sparkling tawny hair falls in gentle waves over my suntanned shoulders. I’m sitting on the royal blue cushion of a white wicker chair, the kind that looks like a throne with a tall curving back. An easel stands in front of me with a canvas propped on it. I’m painting a seascape, en plein air, from atop a bluff overlooking the Pacific. My painting reflects the shades of blue surrounding me, ultramarine sky, cerulean sea, periwinkle flowers dotting the grass. I can smell the salt of the sea, borne by the warm breeze caressing my body. I watch the gulls soar and dive over the ocean and listen to them call to one another. And to me. In answer I spread my arms wide, throw my head back and laugh with pure joy.

***

Adam lowered the newspaper, looked first at his empty coffee cup and then at her.

“Sarah?” he said. “Coffee?”

She heard the pulsing swish of blood coursing through her head, urging her. She straightened up in the chair, lifted her eyes to meet his and said, “Help yourself, dear.” Without a sound she drew in a breath and waited for his response.

Adam tilted his head and gave her a long puzzled look before he reached for the coffee pot and filled his cup.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.

She hesitated, taking stock of herself, still poised tall and tense on the edge of her chair, but aware of a new lightness spreading throughout her body.

“Sure,” she replied. “I’m just fine.”

Copyright 2000 by Liz Zuercher