I have to be completely honest: Mother’s Day sort of irritates me. I mean, it’s very nice for the nation to take a moment and recognize all that moms do, but it sort of tweaks me that people need reminders in the first place. For me, I’d rather be giving my love 365 days out of the year, than be “forced” to shower affections on just one particular day.
And truthfully, wouldn’t the moms out there be happier NOT to have to endure the inevitable “breakfast in bed” routine? Let’s face it, unless you’re Wolfgang Puck’s mom, you’re probably going to be subjected to a mish-mosh of hardly edible items served on a platter that tips and totters dangerously on your nice clean duvet. Then of course there will be the undeniable mess in the kitchen that you will inevitably be expected to clean with a smile of gratitude, while secretly popping Tums to avoid acid reflux.
Hey, I speak from experience. I remember very vividly as a child serving my mother breakfast in bed... it was a disaster!
My mother loved poached eggs. Every morning I would watch her take this miniature double boiler, fill it with water, place an egg in the little aluminum form that sat on top, pop on the tiny lid and wait for three minutes. It was the cutest thing ever. And although I watched my mother do this every morning, I had no concept of what she was actually doing. It looked easy enough though. And when I realized that Mother’s Day was synonymous with breakfast in bed (which is in itself is a kind of weird concept... Who eats in bed? Unless they’re sick...), I thought, “Oh, I know what to do!” Even as a child, I was never daunted by the details of not knowing how to do something.
As I think back on it now, I have no idea where my father was, or why he even let me near the stove, but let me tell you what transpired.
Being a child (I must have been 6 or 7) I had no real concept of measurements, or time. It was all sort of random to me. So when I added water to the pan I had no idea how much to use; I just put in a splash. When it came to adding the egg, well, how was I to know that you needed to melt a little butter in the well of the pan, or that eggshells aren’t normally part of the menu? Not only that, but I had turned my full attention to the toast, butter, and jam, which is how I think I cooked the egg for 10 minutes instead of 3. By the time I got back, the water had boiled away, the bottom of the pan was sort of bulging upward and inward, and the egg had taken on the consistency of a hockey puck. As I chiseled the egg out of the cup with a knife (again: where was my father?) leaving at least half of the egg behind, I hummed a happy little tune. I was making breakfast in bed for my mother -- wonderful me!
I must say that I did do the tray up nicely. My dad used to collect vintage Coca-Cola trays, and he graciously offered me one to use (of course, this memory leads me to believe that he must have been there supervising after all. Possibly his cooking skills were worse than mine? Or maybe he just found it funny!). I had the napkin folded, the fork and knife placed on either side of the smoking plate, the orange juice off to the right, and even had a little bud vase with a flower from our garden. I can say this for sure, I’ve always had an way with presentations!
I remember walking into the room singing, waking my half-asleep mom from what was possibly a lovely dream. I remember her beaming as she scootched herself up on her pillows, catching the tray with catlike reflexes before I completely lost control of my shaking limbs.
Years later we would laugh about how she choked that breakfast down; how I’d never even thought to add salt and pepper, and how basically what I served her would have caused a riot in San Quentin. She was such an amazing sport. Hugging me and lavishing me with praise, and gratitude. On “her” day, she was the one giving out the love...
Which brings me to my point once again. I love my mother. She is one of the most amazing, wonderful, generous, kind, and loving people I know. She has literally dedicated her life to the betterment of her children, her family, and her community without asking for anything in return. The thing is, I can never repay my mother for all that she has done for me, and the notion that honoring her on one day a year can do that is not enough. So for me, I choose to make a change. From now on, every day will be Mother’s Day... minus the breakfast in bed.
