Food is My Ruler

When I was very little and lived each day surrounded by three siblings and a house full of my mother’s babysitting kids, there was nothing I loved more than the sound of my mom’s stern voice calling out my name.  On hot summer mornings while running through the backyard on bare feet, the echo of “Carrie, git in here right now!” would send me flying faster than my legs could carry me to where she was.  You see, I could always hear that certain something in my mother’s voice that told me I wasn’t in trouble. Instead, the second my butt would clear the door frame, she’d be standing there with a plate of warm cookies, or a cool ice cream shake.  She’d slide the treat into my hands and say, “Quick, go to your room.  Don’t let the other kids see.”  I’d race to my room and perch on the edge of my unmade bed, devouring the treat she saved just for me.

On my way back through the kitchen with the plate licked clean of evidence or the empty icy glass, she’d take the item from my hands, and say, “I didn’t have enough to go ‘round.  Pretend I called you in ‘cause you got in trouble.” 

My mom loved me, and she learned from her mother, who probably learned from her mother, to show her love in food.  And she did it oh so well.  

With a heart and belly full of love, I’d smile knowingly and go back out to play.    

But that’s not where it ended.  As the years continued, my mother’s soul food just kept coming:

In elementary school she never sent us to school on our birthdays without a treat to share.

When each of her four children hit the fifth grade, she was the head chef at Lawson Lake – an outdoor education facility where each fifth grade class spent a week at the close of the school year. My mom single-handedly planned the menu, did all the shopping, cooked every last morsel of food, and served every one of the 75-100 fifth graders who walked through the line for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for an entire week.

She led every cooking project completed by Girl Scout Troop 233, and did every bit of menu planning and shopping for each of the Father-Daughter Campouts we went on from kindergarten to twelfth grade. 

In high school she’d send me to school with a dozen apples, a slicer, and a tub of caramel dip to share with my table of friends at lunch.

In tenth grade, she threw a homecoming after-party fit for Hollywood VIP.  She served chicken tenders, cheese and crackers, mini hot dogs, and Cara Defino’s favorite:  star fruit!

The summer after my senior year, she became famous among my group of friends when she sent me to a barbeque with homemade coleslaw. When I arrived, and pried back the lid of the Tupperware to reveal her creation, my friend Ben exclaimed, “Wow, your mom’s so cool, she even garnished the coleslaw.” Sure enough, sitting atop the coleslaw were garden-fresh chives, purple bud and all.

When I was in college, she packed up an entire pizza dinner kit and sent it down for my friends to throw me a birthday party in the dorms – it was complete with pre-formed pizza dough, sauce, cheese, pizza toppings, soda, dessert, plates, napkins, utensils, and even streamers for them to decorate the room.

Once after college, while lounging by my parents’ pool with a friend, my mom came out with a tray overflowing with chicken fingers, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, French fries, and every flavor of dipping sauce known to man:  barbeque, honey mustard, marinara, sweet and sour...

…But one of the most unforgettable memories occurred one winter night when I was home on break from grad school.  I distinctly recall that a much younger version of the Marty I know now had broken my heart so badly that my chest literally ached for days.  Whatever he did couldn’t have been all that bad, as I wouldn’t be able to recall it now if my life or his depended on it.  With no job to go to and no school work to be done, I moped around my parents’ house for days.  I didn’t want to talk, felt too sick to my stomach to go out with friends, and only interrupted the monotony of each day with a shower and a change into a clean set of pajamas.  One night, while I was sitting on my twin bed in my childhood bedroom feeling sorry for myself, my mom quietly entered carrying a glass of white wine on ice and a plate of cheese and crackers.  Without a word, she set the plate on the table beside my bed, gave me a knowing look and retreated from the room.  As soon as the latch of the door clicked closed, the tears poured from my eyes.  I ate that whole plate of cheese and crackers, and swallowed down sobs along with it.  I cried in gratitude for my momma’s love, and lamented the thought that no one, no one would ever love me like my momma does.  I knew that she knew she couldn’t fix my broken heart, but she would do the best she could by feeding my soul through my belly.

A decade passes and brings me to tonight. 

I had planned to see my sister Meghan this evening, but poor planning and poor weather prevented that from happening, leaving me with a twinge of a broken heart.  While tucked away in my office grading papers and planning for my morning classes, Marty quietly entered carrying a glass of white wine on ice and a plate of cheese and crackers. Without a word, he set the plate on the desk beside me, gave me a knowing look and retreated from the room. 

As the latch of the door clicked closed, years and years of my mother’s soul food coalesced on my tongue.  I remembered the night I cried when I realized that no one would ever love me the way my mother does.  And as I ate my plate of cheese and crackers, I swallowed down sobs along with it, thankful that that guy who broke my heart all those years ago has come to realize that I measure love with food, and that a plate of cheese and crackers will always be the best way to feed my hungry heart.