My Two Moms.....

It is my fortune to boast that I was blessed with two mothers. However, there are some days I view my blessing less as fortune and more certainly the genesis of every neurosis that sent me to therapy. Naturally, Mother's Day is a day when I reflect on the dichotomies that sprang out of the complex maternal relationships from being raised both by my grandmother as well as my mother, all three generations of females under the same roof for 15 of my formative years.

My grandmother, who actually raised me, was the epitome of the old-school Southern lady. A lady never raises her voice, always leaves the house in gloves and a hat, is always in possession of her Self. Decorum was essential for a woman to be perceived in a positive light. On the other hand, my dear, Bod Dylan loving, hippy mama was the polar opposite of most of what her mother represented. She generally did raise her voice about anything that she felt deserved a platform, was seldom a fan of decorum and often was not in possession of her Self. Although the latter was sometimes a choice, it was more often than not the manifestation of a mental illness that was more covert than obvious well into her adulthood. My mother was brilliant in her intelligence, so far ahead of her time in many ways. Like many people with chronic mental illness her brilliance often masked the darkness of the mental instability that plagued her from childhood till her passing in 2008.

I am often aware of the ways that I sit somewhere in the middle of the two extremes that are represented by the personalities of these two women. In fact, I could probably dedicate a blog to that topic and cancel the rest of my therapy appointments! But this is a food blog and I am most at peace and thankful for the ways that my two moms contributed to my love, understanding, and passion for all things food related.

It is my grandmother's practical creativity and I believe, hidden inner foodie, who informs the more traditional, homey part of my cooking and food interests. Gram raised two children as a single, widowed mother, during the height of the Great Depression. In the sweet small town of Spencer, WV my grandmother was well-established as the woman who taught you how to play the piano, played the organ at your church, your wedding, or your funeral at one of the town's two funeral homes. It was not uncommon dear ones, that she would be present for all those occasions for any one given person. It was the income from those four jobs that put food on the table for my mom and her younger brother. I think it was during those years that my Gram learned how to combine her homey technique with a practical and necessary frugality, that she frankly never really was able to let go of, even in more bountiful times.

Whenever I put together an amazing meal or casserole with barely anything in the refrigerator (look for my yummy enchilada casserole recipe coming soon!) without any recipe at all, it is an homage to my Gram's practical and essential creativity. I think I must have picked up on this through the osmosis of watching her cook and consuming the fruits of her labor. One area she excelled in that I did not come by, either via osmosis or otherwise, was her exceptional baking skill. She knew, innately, how to follow the exact science of the recipe and also make it her own. I can still see her stained recipe for Honey Bear Brownies, with her scrawled comment "delicious" in the margins of her hand-crafted cookbook in a binder (a cookbook I hope to have someday!)...and I will always remember her secret for the most mouth-watering chocolate cake. (can you guess what it is?)

While my mother could duplicate my Gram's dishes with ease and skill, her influence on my culinary interests has been, like her influence in other areas of my life, more eccentric, out of the boundaries of the cultural norm. My mother spent many years living with relatives in Southern California, where I was born, and where she met my father. (at a Civil Rights demonstration where they were both arrested!) Thankfully the experience of living on the West Coast never left her even after returning to her hometown in Spencer, WV with me in tow. I still remember, with absolute fascination, her stories of staying with my grandfather's sister who had avocado trees in her yard. My mother would walk out in to the yard in the mornings and pick fresh avocados...right off the tree, for breakfast. Such decadence! Even my eight year old brain understood her morning ritual was a rare treat that she must have missed. I would envision her, with her long dark hair flowing, walking out to those trees in the early morning sun. Unusually tall for a woman of that time, I could imagine her carefully selecting the best, most ripe avocado, reaching up with grace and ease......beautiful!

It was my mother who introduced me to my life-long love, the avocado. She ignited a desire by offering me that first bite of creamy, nutty, fresh goodness. After we finished it, she amazed me even more by actually growing an avocado tree from the pit. Although it sadly never bore fruit, it was so healthy and sturdy that it served as my own personal Christmas tree for many years. I don't think any of my classmates had an avocado tree that they decorated at Christmas!

Mom opened the door for my palette, opened it to adventure. She brought home enchiladas and tamales, albeit Swanson's, spicy and a bit tinny from the tray! She talked about jambalaya, Mexican food, and her beloved avocados, nurturing this future foodie all the way. Although my first forays in the kitchen were more closely aligned with my grandmother's tastes and served to meet the requirements of my 4-H projects, my later experiments as a teen reflected my mother's influence and were designed to please and impress her. My first huge success was a gumbo recipe, very complicated and thankfully very delicious, right off the pages of "Glamour" magazine. I felt very sophisticated and it was my signature dish for many years.

Some of mom's passions took a little longer than others to take root. My mother loved and appreciated the virtues of tofu long before it was "cool" or healthy, like most things she was way ahead of her time. Now I need to digress a bit and share with you a bit of history about our hometown, Spencer, WV. It remains one of the lovely and unusual things about Spencer that right on Main Street, there was what my mother called a tofu dairy! A small and mysterious establishment, unavoidable because of its prominent location, they made tofu and shipped it across the country. How could such a business develop and survive in the heart of West Virginia where biscuits and gravy, baked apples, pork chops and fried potatoes reigned supreme? Let me explain dear ones...

In the late sixties and 70's there was an influx of "hippies" who moved to rural West Virginia, drawn to the availability of cheap, private, yet incredibly beautiful land, ideal for urbanite granolas to come and develop communities for peaceful living. According to Barbara Fisher, said hippies were unable to make a living farming so they decided to sell the tofu that they had been making at home. Twenty-five year later, there remains, in the heart of Roane County a successful tofu business, Spring Creek Natural Foods, that ships it's tofu nationally! I am sure that between my mother's influence and that of the people we knew from this community that I can trace my own granola tendencies!

My mother tried in vain to get me to eat tofu. It wasn't until I moved to Seattle and spent four years as a vegetarian/vegan that I grew to appreciate its versatility and yummy goodness. Sadly by then, my mother's mental illness had made it difficult for me to have quality conversations with her. However, I believe that she knows and is sending me a loving "I told you so" even now!

It is the gifts of these two very different women that often will show up on the pages of this blog. So it seemed appropriate on this day we celebrate our Mothers to give credit where credit is due. Thank you Frances Owen and Leith Owen for the things you instilled in me, for laying the foundation for things borne and things yet to come..I still miss you both...

more will be revealed...

"Angels lay her away...

Lay her 6 feet under the clay"

Josh Ritter "So Runs the World Away"

P.S. I wrote the previous piece this afternoon at my favorite Northgate Barnes & Noble. It was significant to me that as I finished the last sentences I became aware of the beautiful, folksy music that was playing and of the above lyrics, poignant on their own right, but even more meaningful to me in the context of what I had just completed writing. The Josh Ritter CD is a wonderful, Ritter has outdone himself, far superior to his previous CD. I know my hippy mama would have loved it!