My Mother's Apron

MY MOTHER’S APRON

By Deborah Porter

My sister’s peach cobbler came out of the oven with the fanfare of a homecoming parade. The kids clapped and squealed with delight, while the sweet aroma filled the air like ticker tape confetti. Not sure why this irritated me, but it did. Maybe because my sister Charlotte always thought she was the better cook. As though she had by osmosis inherited our mother’s incredible cooking gene, and I was left with basic water boiling skills.

Our mother has been a phenomenal cook and truth be told, neither my sister nor I had watched her in the kitchen long enough to truly replicate her complete culinary artistry. At best, we each walked away with a few recipes that we could duplicate well. Peach cobbler was one of them.

Now here was Char strutting around the kitchen in one of mom’s aprons, shoving her peach cobbler under my nose like a trophy she’d just won.

“Uhm hum, it looks good, Char,” I managed to mumble without rolling my eyes.

“I know, right? And my lattice crust came out perfect,” she smiled big.

“Yes! But can we move on?” Exasperation seeping unrestrained through my voice. “We need to figure out who’s bringing what for Thanksgiving dinner. Uncle Rick and his new wife are coming – oh, and I think this year she wants to bring the potato salad.”

We both paused with a sideways eye roll then burst into loud laughter.

Potato salad, much like macaroni & cheese and fried chicken, is considered the holy grail of soul food in the Black household. These dishes are never left to an amateur cook. Usually, because weekend novices don’t understand the nuances of the right amount of seasonings, the balance of all the condiments, and most of all that you never add incongruous ingredients like corn, or peas, or some mystery vegetable. Nope! Potato salad is best left to a Black woman named Big Momma, preferably over 60-years old with big breasts, who most likely has a special seasoned pot just to boil her potatoes in.

“Well, maybe Uncle Rick can talk her into bringing soda or paper plates” Char sputtered through bouts of laughter.

“No, seriously I don’t know why she thinks she can cook,” I snickered. “We all know Uncle Rick didn’t marry her because she knows her way around the kitchen!”

“Humph, exactly! Plus, Auntie Rose would have a fit if that woman waltzed in here with her ‘gone wrong’ potato salad!”

Uncle Rick and Auntie Rose were mom’s younger brother and sister and now the patriarch/matriarch of the family. Their attendance and opinion of the family Thanksgiving dinner were paramount, even though Char and I and other related women would be doing most of the cooking. But Auntie Rose would certainly oversee the kitchen, curating which side dishes would go where on the table and choreographing the dance of who is served first.

After much banter about the Thanksgiving menu and the guest list, I checked my watch. “Well, it’s late, I have to run,” kissing my only sibling on the cheek, making my way to the door, but not before taking a final glance at her now half-eaten peach cobbler.

“Oh, and are we still on to work on the photo album next weekend?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. I’ll be there with glue stick in hand.”

Like many of our “bonding” times together, Char and I would often have huge arguments about the best method for preserving old family photos, what was or wasn’t an authentic mom recipe and of all things, her aprons! We discovered mom’s extensive collection of aprons, many of which were vintage pieces, in old dusty black bags in the garage after she passed away. Those little pieces of cloth signified mom’s love of food, the joy of cooking, and a nostalgic time when dinner meant family gathered together around the table. Which was a far cry from my sometimes-half-empty dinner table decorated with cell phone screens, “uh-huh” conversations, and pizza boxes.

So, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Char and I sat crossed legged on the floor in my living room sipping wine, sifting through boxes of old family photos, trying to determine which earned a prestigious spot in the photo album.

“OMG! Look at this one of mom and Uncle Rick,” Char yelled, waving a tattered black & white image, “Are those plaid bell-bottoms he has on?”

“Let me see! Gurl, you couldn’t have told him he wasn’t sharp.” This brought on a fit of belly-hugging laughter from both of us.

“No, no…that he didn’t look killer!” Char giggled, which took our laughter up a notch as we recalled all the 70s words that were euphemisms for a sharp dresser.

The warmth of a good time settled in the room.

“Mom looks cute in this picture with her frilly apron, remember the one with the pink flowers,” Char whispered. “This one definitely needs to go in the photo album,” as she slowly added the picture to the accepted pile as if she was afraid to let go of it.

“Yeah, she does. But nothing like when she wore her favorite apron…you know, the one with the pear tree on it.”

As soon as I spoke the words, I regretted bringing up the damn pear tree apron. The subject always put me and Char in a competition of ‘Who Knows Culinary Mom Best’.

“You always say that was her a favorite apron, but we never found it in those bags,” she stated matter-of-factly while scoring ten points.

Char might have been too young to remember, but I wasn’t. It was yellow. It had two small pockets on either side and a beautiful pear tree in the middle—full of green leaves and ripe pears. Our father gave mom that apron on Mother’s Day because she loved making pear preserves & jam from the Bartlett pears daddy brought home from a friend’s orchard. I remember her big smile and the even bigger hug she gave daddy. I remember her cooking in that apron, humming Motown tunes while boiling pots steamed up the kitchen windows.

But Char was right. There wasn’t one picture of mom in that apron, and we never found it in the bags with the others. I’d lost the bonus round.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I answered quietly. “But I promise you it was one of her favorites.”

Char didn’t respond to my sheepish confession, so I refilled our wine glasses and quickly turned the conversation back to Thanksgiving. We finished the bottle of wine and ran through our mental checklist one more time before calling it a night.

After Char left, I lay in the dark, wondering how much I truly knew about my mother. Maybe there was no pear tree apron or if there was, it wasn’t her favorite. Did I create their magical interchange in my head when daddy gave it to her, as only a child could do? Was it possible that Char really was the better cook, and I hadn’t paid enough attention to my mother’s meal preparations? One of my biggest regrets was not asking her how to make her famous sweet potato pie before she died. Did any of it actually matter? Perhaps it was time to let the past go.

Thursday came quickly, and the house began to fill with family and the delicious smells that only Thanksgiving brings. My baked ham was a big hit, glistening with honey, pineapples and my secret beer marinade. Char made a pan of dressing that tasted like it came straight from our mother’s oven. Mom would have been proud.

Auntie Rose entered the house in a whirlwind, with an entourage of cousins and kids, and a huge pot of collard greens.

“Here baby, take this pot,” she said breathlessly.

“Of course,” I smiled kissing her cheek.

“It smells good in here. Is most of the food ready?” she said, washing her hands.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Well, let’s get dinner on the table so we can eat.” “But wait,” Auntie Rose said, grabbing my arm then leaning in to whisper. “Please tell me Rick’s woman didn’t bring the potato salad.”

“No, no, cousin Carolyn made the potato salad, Uncle Rick brought soda” I laughed softly pointing to the counter full of assorted soft drinks.

Auntie Rose ran the kitchen like a Michelin star chef. Char and I got busy passing her platters, serving bowls, and small chafing dishes, while the ‘chosen few’ women allowed in the kitchen, sliced meats and scooped up heaps of food to serve. This was family. Food was our legacy and how we showed love. I was happy to be in the kitchen.

Just then, Auntie Rose reached into her bag and pulled out an apron. And suddenly there it was, my mother’s pear tree apron. Char stopped in mid-sentence to stare as I stood there with my mouth agape in amazement.

“Where did you get this?” I whispered in disbelief, touching the fabric to make sure it was real.

“From your mother. Shortly before she died, she told me to pick out one of her aprons to keep and remember her by. So I went through her collection, and I pick out this one with the pear tree because it was yellow…and it was her favorite.” “All right, everybody, let’s eat!” she said moving on – not realizing what just took place.

I didn’t dare look at Char for fear of bursting into tears, so I just concentrated on the serving the potato salad.