A meal for a lifetime

Me, the sick child awoken my mother to my cries. I was so young but chicken pox was rampant and the kids at school were getting it so it was a matter of time.

I still have a mark on my forehead from scratching the pox. My attentive mother tended to my needs with comfort as any good mother would. I remember one day during my course of the illness, the smell of cooking and baking was going on in the small kitchen. The oven was fired up and I could hear the sounds of healing. The can opener opening the cans and fresh cheese being graded. The pot almost boiling over with the noodles cooking. Sitting on the sofa, curled up with my blankets, I saw the smile on her face as she cooked. Her mother, my grandmother had baked this very meal for her when she was sick as a child. My grandmother was a dear soul.

I don’t think she ever removed her apron unless of course in exchange for her pajamas at night. The mother of eleven children keit her on her toes in the kitchen and in the fields. Women, back then did far more for their families than they do now. Rest came late at night and many times were awakened in the night with the tears of their young children. My grandmother would rock me as a baby and say sweet prayers over my life. I believe that those prayers set the course for my life. This meal that my mother was preparing had a generation of healing ones soul and body. As I lay and wait and smell the casserole baking, I thought of the taste. Would I like it or would I have to fake it to please my mother? When the meal was presented to me, it looked alright and sure smelled good to my little red nose. At first bite, even though it was very warm, the healing began. The casserole was yummy and I found myself eating it all off of my plate. Can I have some more, I pleaded. My mother rushed to the kitchen to prepare another plate full. Now that my stomach was full, I rested. Assured, my mother was that I would awaken much better, she rested herself. As the morning sun arose and shone through my window peaking through the white sheers, I opened my tiny eyes. The illness, it seemed was much better. What was in that magic casserole? Was it the ingredients or was it her love? Either way, I felt much better and I was grateful. Slipping on my slippers, I grabbed my blanket and went into the living room. The kitchen was not far off and there you’d find my mother making some breakfast. Mother, I asked, can I have some more of the casserole? Surprised at my request, she agreed and warmed up a plate for me. Adding a little more cheese and pepper, I greedily ate a full plate. What is this magic casserole? I asked.

Sitting next to me and holding me close, she began the story of the recipe of the family tuna casserole. There’s nothing special in it, she explained. But, when I was young, my mother prepared it for me and somehow it seemed to make me better and now it has for you. Well, I told her that I didn’t know what it was but I feel 75 percent better. Now, where I came up with that percentage I can’t tell you. Only in the mind of a small child. The days turned into months and every time that I became ill, my mother made me tuna casserole and I always got better! Whether it was in my mind or not, it had something special. Maybe it was in the memory of the love in each measurement or the mixing and baking. Watching her wipe her face from the heat of the oven or using the worn apron to wipe her hands, was healing.

When I grew up and began a family of my own, I continued the recipe for my young boys. I followed suit of the mixing, measuring and the love of baking the casserole. Giving my boys this memory was what I wanted to continue. Watching the healing meal expand into my own family was a constant reminder of a mother’s love in the kitchen. I do not think that the ingredients hold anything magical and I do not believe that the casserole heals. It’s not the tuna or the mushroom soup or the cheese for they are simple ingredients. What I do believe is in the power of love and how it can heal a soul, mind and body. A mother’s love is a glue that holds a child together from the womb to an adult.

What memory are you creating that will last a lifetime? Mine was and will always be in the casserole made with love. What recipe will last a lifetime in your family? Mine is a simple tuna casserole and yet it’s the memories that shall last a lifetime.