Light as a Feather

I call it the Mother-In-Law dance. It's those awkward gyrations that occur when two cultures collide in a thing called marriage. There are jokes and Greek tragedies based upon it, and it's one of the great mysteries on this planet that will never truly be solved. There's that old saying, "A son's a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter all her life." As the mother of three faithful sons and a newly married daughter, I'm not sure it's that extreme, but there is some truth to that adage.  It's my belief that in most marriages, the culture of the wife is what makes the soul of a home. Like it or not, she is the one who is the liquid between the spaces...the one who connects the dots and brings her own special mix that grows into a new little universe. It is the mystery of womanhood, that in my observance (apologies to my detractors), God made to help root families together. Right smack in the middle of this is the mother-in-law. The new wife wants to please her, but at the same time wants to show her....to prove to her that she is worthy and capable of handling her new role. 

When I married Ken, some 38 years ago, I knew nothing about cooking. I could chop down a tree, clean anything, mow grass, work hard and handle a basketball, but I barely knew how to boil water. The kitchen was my Mama's domain and the only thing about it that was familiar to me was the suds and scrubbing. I was good at that part. It was strange to me, when we married, that Ken didn't care that much about a scoured pot as much as if he was going to get to actually eat. The men in that day were not as savvy as my sons have become with cooking. The grill was a possibility, but it was rare to see any man inside at the cooktop. He was and is a chauvinist in this area. If I am busy or dieting with food he can't muster, he gladly stops off at the Sonic. But is that actually food? I think it reminds him of his childhood and eating at Fat Boy in Smyrna, around the corner from his folks' home. I'm concerned about what might be collecting on the inside of his arteries. 

Ken's Mama (Annette) was Paula Deen, before Paula Deen came onto our radar. She made the best biscuits I've ever eaten...light, fluffy, but crispy around the edges. She used to make two giant pans of them, just to feed Ken, his brother and their baby sister. I did not know pecan pie, until I ate hers. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, she made masses of dressing for the turkey, always stating, "I'm sorry. It's not fit to eat." We all would feel like the holiday did not happen, if we did not get some of her scrumptious dressing. Recently, one of my daughter-in-laws wisely, patiently took down her instructions on how to make it. The legend will live on. I told Annette that one of my big regrets was not sitting at her feet when we first married and learn to cook from her. But no, I was proud. I didn't ask anybody for help. I got a big red-and-white Better Homes and Gardens cookbook as a wedding gift. All these years later, it's greasy and dog-eared. I did learn to cook, raising four giant lumberjack people to prove it. But my journey would have been better and smarter if I had eaten a little humble pie and let her teach me. 

She suffered immensely these last two months, with an aggressive cancer diagnosis. The COVID mess kept us all away, though at the very end she was able to have a little time with her husband and Ken and her daughter, Melissa. She died peacefully, in her sleep, holding Melissa's hand early on Sunday morning. In my mind's eye, I see her floating gently on up, light as a butterfly, with the warm scent of buttermilk biscuits filling up heaven. She and I often had an awkward dance and I know I must have aggravated her a lot with my lack of decorum and social filters. I am almost half-Yankee, there's that, and she was all gracious and Southern. But there are parts of me that she made and raised, that I will ever be grateful for. I will see you again, sweet Mother-in-Love.