c. 2020 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-20)
“Precious memories
How they linger
How they ever flood my soul
In the stillness
Of the midnight
Precious sacred scenes unfold.”
- J. B. F. Wright
In yonder days, traveling to visit my parents in Philippi, West Virginia meant many things. An interlude of family love, good conversation, interaction with neighbors and friends from the community and church. But for this writer, a more basic, more personal connection was foremost during each voyage to Mountaineer country.
I was always eager to see what Mom had waiting in the kitchen.
My mother was a McCray by birth. Membership in her brood brought a penchant for singing and spreading joy easily, in an uninhibited and authentic way. This tradition was magnified by a habit of preparing food as part of the cultural experience. Everything, good or bad, involved hearty meals. Births, deaths, promotions, anniversaries, people joining the flock or moving away, or most familiar of all, receiving us, visitors from the distant shore of Lake Erie.
Our time of arrival seemed to have little effect on these offerings. Once, I showed up late with my first wife, after dark. The byproduct of having worked earlier in that day. Their table was set with a buffet spread of sliced ham, homemade rolls and potato salad, plus tasty deserts. My parents had eaten their dinner hours before. Yet Mom still wanted to be sure that our bellies would not go empty.
Typically, a recycled coffee can would be waiting in the kitchen, filled with cookies separated by layers of waxed paper. It was this delectable treasure chest that I anticipated most eagerly. Before sunrise I would awaken to the promise of morning, not yet fulfilled. Feeling giddy to be home again, I would creep quietly downstairs, where a pot of coffee could be made. And there, with a night-light spreading illumination through an old canning jar, my first feast would begin.
In silent reverence, I would have my hot drink with No-Bake cookies.
The eventual result of my early snacking meant that by breakfast time, I had already ingested a full ration of caffeine and sugar. With a plate of biscuits and gravy, or bacon and eggs, adding to the pleasing weight in my stomach. I often felt like dozing on the couch as our adventure for the day was planned. My blood sugar would drop precipitously, and with it, any hope of genuine ambition.
But during every visit, I repeated this cycle.
Mom did not care, preferring to focus on having her family close at hand. Something that always set her aglow. Though sometimes, she would tease me about adding extra pounds. Comments that always followed a satisfying meal, like fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. Or pot roast with green beans and ham on the side. I reckoned it was a small price to pay for feeling stuffed and satisfied.
My younger brother found this feed-and-flog strategy to be less than amusing, however. He would loudly ponder these episodes when we were back in Ohio. “Why does she do that?” But for sister and myself it did not matter. These opposing quantities were more than funny. They actually represented the disparate concerns of a loving mater. Worry over hunger and need, versus concern for balance and good health. Taken together, they made sense.
And made us laugh.
So long as the cookies were waiting, I was glad to absorb any prickly pronouncements that might follow.
Over the years, my parents traveled on their life journey as every soul is destined to do, eventually. Dad became less mobile, but continued his writing. Mom slipped slowly into a fog of dementia that took away her mastery with pots and pans. The home cooking disappeared. I bowed my head over take-out pizza or pepperoni rolls. The big table became a repository of potato chips, cheese twists, and pretzels. Still, filling my stomach seemed less important. Concern for them occupied my thoughts.
Dad passed in 2018. Mom joined him in eternity during the next year. Gone were embraces, morning conversations and late ramblings over family memories. Also vanished were bowls of vegetable soup, cornbread with beans, salmon patties, and hush puppies. Or macaroni & cheese baked in the oven.
I would sometimes see No-Bake Cookies available at our local supermarket. They were dry, flaky, and nearly inedible. Not what I remembered. Some even carried raisins in the mix, which made me shiver. I tried making my own and the result was batch of gooey globs. I did not have the McCray sense of timing. Even after sitting in the freezer, they refused to develop the proper consistency.
I could hear my mother laughing. “Keep trying. You’ll figure it out, Rodney!”
My own kitchen methodology was less disciplined. A crude approximation of real cooking. I preferred savory dishes, and liked to fry almost everything. Cast-iron skillets worked well for my concoctions. Though an electric pot full of oil sometimes yielded reckless delights like Tempura-Battered Vienna Sausages. Something that sent my second wife into a fit of dietary rage.
Long gone were memories of the coffee and cookies.
With my own life-cycle advancing like hands on a clock, I began to develop mobility issues that mimicked those of my father. I reached the point where working in the yard became a chore that slipped out of reach. After clumsy attempts using a cane, I surrendered.
My nephew took over lawn care duties in the summer.
During one of his recent visits, with my brother-in-law, he casually offered a shopping bag while heading for my storage barn, and the mower. “Mom made these for you,” he observed. I was flustered. As grass clippings began to fly, I took the sack inside for a look.
Inside was a loaf of Banana-Nut Bread. And a double-layer plate of No-Bake Cookies.
Soon afterward, my morning began with a fresh pot of coffee brewing in the household Bunn device. With the cocoa treats nearby. My belly swelled in a sweet rush of satisfaction. My pulse quickened. It was more than the effect of caffeine and sugar. At last I felt closer to home, closer to the kitchen in West Virginia.
Closer to those who gave me life.
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