Blog #1

When the leaves are turning as yellow as the lemon wedges floating in a pitcher of sweet tea is when my mother’s cooking is at its finest. Though the least time consuming of her creations, she was proud of the tea, as all the ingredients were home grown and homemade. Everything was home made. It was also during this same time that my father would postpone all business trips, no matter how important, to spend time with us.

We lived in our ranch style house in Georgia for 16 years, learning the highs and lows of our unpredictable weather. Luckily, autumn was the only time of the year when it was cool enough to stay outside longer than it took to just turn on the grill and sprint back inside. We’d spend the entire evening outside, my family and I, enjoying the savory aroma of steak marinated for the past days, agonizingly awaiting the dinner my mother had planned. When we were young, my sisters, Karina and Danna, would join me as we sat around the table on our back porch, watching as my mother prepared what we knew would be even more delicious than the previous time, as it always was. In anticipation, we would willingly set the table with the napkins and silverware necessary for our night’s feast, a task we usually dreaded. My dad often worked late, assuming he was still in town, but he was rarely gone for these occasions. No one blamed him. It seemed that the aura our giant steel grill emitted was strong enough to draw my family together from anywhere, knowing what would come when my mother was finished.

My mother also had more toppings for her baked potatoes than you could ever actually fit on there. Traditionally, we would use cheese, bacon bits, sour cream, and butter, always in the same fashion. However, as my mother’s garden grew, so did our array of choices. Onions, garlic, all types of vegetables became just as frequent toppings for our potatoes, the potatoes my mother grew and let us pick for our dinner later that evening. Her method of cooking kept us enthralled, watching her every move as closely as we could. The way she conducted her kitchen was intoxicating, yet the way she managed grilling on our deck was even more eloquent. I knew when I grew up that my house would be an exact replica so my wife would be able to recreate this identical atmosphere my mother and father had enjoyed for years passed, before he started travelling. But for now, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was our rocking chairs on the back porch, awaiting her next step.

She would always prepare vegetables next. The same ones we picked, tomatoes hanging on limbs barely shorter than ourselves, numerous colors of peppers, all being washed, sautéed, boiled and strained in their own unique ways, all according to my mother’s ever increasing sense of perfection. This was perhaps my favorite part, seeing a collage of several different types of vegetables, various colors, so rich in complexion, swirling around in her cast iron pan. It was mesmerizing, watching her cook; almost as amazing as the way she managed to keep my attention so focused on such a simple task. All the while it never occurred to me that I could be riding a bike with friends or throwing a ball in the front yard with my dad on one of his evening’s home with me. The only thing that mattered was my mother’s whisk rhythmically stirring, followed by the circulation of my eyes.

What set me apart from my sisters the most was my imitation. While they enjoyed watching, almost as enthused as I was, I mimicked everything I saw: her movements, her selections, her thoughts. It wasn’t long after the first few times she had prepared this meal that I knew what we would be eating, and would begin harvesting our garden. Before she could ask, I had already picked the largest potatoes from the patch, and the ripest lemons for our bottomless amount of sweet tea. It wasn’t until the steaks were done, however, that we would be allowed to eat. First, the entrée would be served, followed by baked potatoes, covered in as many toppings as you could fit, and lastly by a pan filled with the most mouth-watering mixture of vegetables that my young eyes had ever seen. I was convinced, after holding my father’s hand for our nightly prayer, that this was heaven.

The only thing my mother didn’t let us watch her prepare was desert. More often than not, it was one of her two most infamous dishes: Oreo cheesecake or apple pie with ice cream. It was torture, not knowing what she was baking, as she would usually do it the night before. None the less, my sisters and I would wait anxiously, peering into the kitchen as my mother would bring back the baked goodness she had produced the night before and hidden from us on the top shelf of our fridge. When I was younger, I couldn’t decide whether or not I was mad or happy with my mother for hiding the desert from us. However, I just recently realized that it wasn’t her hiding it that bothered me, but the fact that she wouldn’t prepare the best part of the meal where I could watch, or more importantly, help. Tonight, it was Oreo cheesecake, my favorite.

He left, returning to the productive world of business, airplanes and meetings. We cherished these nights with our father, and looked forward to the next one, where my mother would cook baby back ribs instead of steak, and zucchini followed closely by the tossing of a moist Caesar salad or a loaf of pumpernickel bread. Luckily, he was only gone for a week at most, and would always come home. It was during these coveted autumn dinners that my father would always be home, while we waited for the best of my mother’s food, and enjoyed these crisp autumn nights that will never be forgotten.