I have just
returned from a long trip across the country, which actually began with a
wonderful trek over the Pacific to Maui.
From there, after a brief stop in Northern California to repack and refamiliarize
myself with my home, I was off to New England.
I stopped in, again, very briefly, to visit my family, and then was off
to Ireland for two weeks, on business.
After a very
successful stay in Northern Ireland, I returned to New England, where I stayed
at my mom’s house. We hung out, had a
good time, but I complained about how I could not find any decent vegetarian food
while on the Emerald Island (lots of good beer and deep-fried potatoes, but a
dearth of healthy green, leafy types of foods; and very poor Italian recipes).
I informed
my dear old ma that I was dying for some pasta, made with a very healthy
tomato-based sauce. She said that she
had a bunch of jars of spaghetti sauce in her cupboard that I could drizzle
over some pasta. I asked if she felt
like making one of her famous tomato sauces.
She replied, “I have all the ingredients, but don’t have the time nor
desire to make that time-consuming sauce much anymore.”
“Hmmmm,” I replied. “How about I whip up my own marinara sauce,
one that tastes amazing and only takes a mere thirty minutes to create?”
She said, “Only
if I can hold your camera and film it.” (Totally fabricated).
I am now at work on editing an outtakes video from all the film footage I tossed out after creating this wonderful vid. My mom is not only a good sport, but an excellent cook who taught me everything I know about healthy eating and cooking. I hope that this is only the start of many more "cooking with mom" videos.
I just got off the phone with my mom. She lives Back East. She is a recent widow. This past December, my stepfather passed away, and my mom now occupies their large home by herself. While still grieving, she is determined to move on with her life, to persevere, to live life 365, like the website says. Little did I know how determined she is!
Like I said, I just hung up the phone (or, in this age of flip-open cell phones: I snapped it closed and slipped it back into my pocket) after experiencing a rather odd conversation with my mother. Now, more often than not, a conversation with my mom borders on oddness, meanders around the strange, and all too frequently is laced with nonsensical utterances. This one was no exception, except she also added that, a mere three months since the passing of my stepfather, she is “seeing” someone. Not “dating” someone. According to those seventy-something romantics, “seeing” is strictly dining and watching a movie together. While “dating” is something that my fifty-something brain cannot, will not, and refuses to wrap itself around. The bizarre conversation went something like this:
MIKE: Hi, Ma, how are you holding up?
MOM: Oh, fine, just fine…doing better.
MIKE: That’s great. So, what’s new?
MOM: Oh, you know, nothing much. (sounds of fork and knife against dishes and food being masticated)
MIKE:Same here. What are you doing, eating? Want me to call back?
MOM: Oh, no, it’s okay. (whispering sounds away from the phone)
MIKE: Is someone there?
MOM: Huh? (giggle)
MIKE:Ma?
MOM: I’m here…(away from the phone): No, let me get that, Dave (not his real name)
MIKE:Dave?
MOM: Oh, he’s trying to put the dishes away.
MIKE:Huh?
MOM: Huh? (giggle, sounds of dishes clattering, more chewing sounds, and something that may or may not have been a belch)
MIKE:Huh? MOM: Michael?
MIKE: Ma? What’s going on?
MOM: Oh, you remember Dave? From the neighborhood?
MIKE: Dave? What’s he doing there?
MOM: (away from the phone): Michael says “hi.”
MIKE:Ma?
On and on it went like that, only it got worse, took stranger and weirder turns until my head was spinning like a gyro. Through my dizziness, I finally found the fortitude to say goodbye and hang up. After several minutes of mental Ping-Pong, I debated having my first drink of alcohol since 1993, then opted instead to create this video:
You see, besides my shock at discovering my mom was “seeing” someone less than three months after my stepfather went off to meet his Maker, I was taken aback by her choice of gentleman callers. Not that there is anything wrong with Dave (not his real name); actually, Dave is a great guy. Now. But back in the day, when I was a wild child, a hyperactive menace, an energy-driven sports junkie, I kicked, tossed, hurled, belted, flipped, flew, flung, booted, upchucked, and projectile-vomited every known object of recreational activity—baseball, bat, glove, Frisbee, tennis ball, football, badminton racket, golf club, shuttlecock, and kickball—into our neighbor’s fenced-in backyard…into our neighbor Dave’s (not his real name) yard. And do you know what Dave did? Hmmm?
Today, as a moderately mature adult, I can certainly understand where Dave (still not his real name) was coming from. Who would want some snot-nosed brat shucking and shoveling every ball or sports equipment known to man into his backyard? Not me, now! And certainly not Dave, then!
But as a kid, an athletic kid who adored sports and wanted nothing more than to run wild in his yard playing make-believe Red Sox games in which he was at bat in the bottom of the ninth with the winning runs on base, I was devastated. And out a lot of balls. But I got better, got over it, moved on, actually forgot about it as the decades came and went and the balls of my youthful dreams evolved into balls that, in the name of good taste, shall remain nameless.
And don’t even get me started on the differences between “seeing” someone and actually “dating” them. To quote my mother:
“Oh, no, Michael, we’re just friends, it will never come to that, and he understands that.” Me: “Ma, come on, he’s a man, even if he’s in his seventies, he is a man and men would much rather ‘date’ someone that merely ‘see’ them.”
Leading me to this conclusion: what can ya do? I mean, she’s a grown woman who knows, for the most part, what she’s doing. If she wants to “see” the guy who used to steal my balls, then God bless her. It’s better than “dating” the guy who used to steal my balls, I guess.
But do me one favor, huh, Ma? As this “seeing” eventually evolves into “dating,” and that morphs into something I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE!...can you do me one big favor? Huh?
Can you ask Dave (okay, really, not his real name…not even close) if he still has my balls? And if he does, can I have them back?
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