A guest post by my Sweet Boy
Now remember, Freddy, my mom says, little Cs. I plunge the whisk into the bowl. The eggs begin to foam, their yolks diffuse. C…C…C. I think I’m getting the hang of this. C…C…C. The eggs settle. Great job, Freddy Bear, my mom chirps. I flash a smile of genuine pride. It’s my first time cooking.
My mom is, and will always be, infatuated with cooking. She grew up watching Julia Child. There is a stack of cookbooks alongside her bed. As I make my way to my bedroom after a night of studying, I peek into her room and, as always, a cookbook is in her hands, a look of fascination across her face. With her cooking, she keeps our family close and fills our house with joy. Every night, a meal on the table and endless laughter. We are brought together. It is cooking that has done this, in part.
I come home. The house smells good. It always smells good. A coconut cake. A lamb stew. Conversation over the counter. I ask her, What are you making tonight, Mom? There is always an answer.
I wake up years later. Make myself eggs. I hear her voice. C…C…C. Little Cs, Freddy. Little Cs.