My mother, the magician
She has always been a very talented woman but most of her talents were securely hidden under several artful and impenetratable bushels. Some of her more mysterious talents were those associated with butter.
Butter didn't particularly affect my very youthful life because in South Africa it tasted quite foul. In England however, it altered it's genetic make up, to become the ideal toping for warm crumpets, scones and other delectibles.
Butter has some rather odd qualities such as the ability remove stuck things. Like most children, I was all to frequently stuck in something or had something stuck on me. Butter was the solution.
As children, it was our purpose in life to make our mother's life as miserable as possible with our constant and unreasonable demands. We plagued her with questions of the 'when is dinner / I'm starving' variety, at 3 minute intervals for the hour prior to the allotted time. If we were persistent, and we usually were, exasperation would take over and we were given the opportunity to 'ruin our appetites' with a 'spot of bread and butter.'
It would be at this juncture, with hindsight, that I find myself apologetic to my mother. Her capitulation failed to bring about the desired peace and tranquility that she so richly deserved, as she laboured in the kitchen to produce a nutritious and attractive meal for all five of us, every day, from our birthdays until we eventually left home as adults. I would poke about the well ordered fridge.
“Mummeee! Where's the butter? I can't find it anywhere!”
“Second shelf down, at the back on the right.”
“Where? It's not there I can't see it?”
“The other right.”
“No, there's just a big um dish thing.”
“Under the dish thing.”
“Mummy….”
“Really!” she would spit in frustration as she'd bustle about and lay her hand directly on the invisible butter, slam the fridge door and slap the butter container on the corner edge of the kitchen table.
“Mum. Where's the bread?”
“In the bread bin where it always is.”
“Where' the bread bin?”
“Where it always is, on the boiler.”
“I can't see it.”
“Move the cereal packets, it right behind there.” I would then fight with the lid, and the wrapping. If I was lucky it would be a ready sliced loaf, if unlucky …….
“Where's the bread knife?”
“In the knife drawer.”
“Don't use that one dear, use the brown handled one.” I would then attempt to carve off a lump of bread, without biting off the tip of my tongue that protruded with concentration.
“Do use a bread board dear, you'll ruin the table.” So it would go on , step after step, and painful step. Because my mother would always be busy, sometimes I would become distracted myself. I would peel off the crust of the lump of bread and then ball up the soft sponge into dough balls. This was one of my more disgusting habits gleaned from one of my more 'unsavoury acquaintances.' I had many.
“How disgusting! Don't do that. Just spread it with butter and be done! Don't forget to use the butter knife, I don't want lots of little crumbs in the butter dish.” I would try hard to oblige but a pat of butter is always an impenetrable brick to a child. I would carve off great lumps of potential coronaries and squash them in the all too yielding bread which would tear and mangle under my heavy handed torment.
“Good grief child. What are you doing to that poor bread? Give it here!” she would sigh. I would cogitate upon my crimes unto baked goods, sad but oh so true. She would whip the equipment away from me and demonstrate the required skill. Swift and rapid movements made corrugated slivers of butter that glanced over the surface of the bread. It was miraculous.
I would attempt smiling in return, a cross between guilt, gratitude and awe. My mother the Dairy Queen. This was proof positive that I had indeed been found under a Gooseberry bush. There was no common gene pool. Her tanned skinned. My freckled, beet red, sunburn. Her coiffed coils, my rats tails. Her skills, my ineptitude. He breaks the spell as I lean in supervision mode by the kitchen counter, “what you are do mum?” I blink.
“Just thinking dear.”
“What you are think mum?” Good grief! When was the last time any male of the species asked a female person that question? I watch him slather a pre-cut slice of bread with lashings of room temperature butter in our Californian home, with a quick slick to his tongue.
“I think maybe it skipped a generation you little magician you!”
January 25th, 2008 at 12:29 am
What I love most are these conversations–these vignettes of life at your home.
btw, my D tried something new at speech/occupational therapy today… chocolate peanut butter on bread that he was unfamiliar with. granted, he picked the cold (yes, shock!), semi-wet (again with the shock) peanutty stuff off the bread, but he tried it! (Proud=Mummy!)
January 25th, 2008 at 4:33 am
I still can’t spread cold butter from the fridge. *sigh*
January 25th, 2008 at 4:49 am
Tune in tomorrow for more “Male Bashing with Maddy”. Today’s episode brought to you by Lifetime, the women’s network, “all women, all the time.” Produced by women. Written by women, about women. Starring….women.
January 25th, 2008 at 4:57 am
Vignettes…that’s the word I was looking for. Somebody (?) said that the ability to simplify the complex, ala vignettes, was a gift. Ben used to make the most amusing cartoons, word sparing, that said so much in so little…
I wish I could find them. I think you would enjoy them with your similar gifts, and walks down memory lane that we all share!
January 25th, 2008 at 4:57 am
No matter how soft the butter is, my boys spread it so hard with the knife, the bread brakes apart. Hence why I always do the buttering!
January 25th, 2008 at 5:20 am
What a nice and detailed memory! and look at him spreading away, very proud, too.
January 25th, 2008 at 6:25 am
Your memories of not being able to find anything that was right under your nose sound exactly like my kids and my husband.
January 25th, 2008 at 6:52 am
What a thoughtful little boy you have. It’s great that he’s developing skills in the kitchen. Loved the way you wove the past with the present together in this post. : )
January 25th, 2008 at 7:01 am
Such a nice story. Though I sound a lot like your mom when my boys (including Hubby) can’t find something right there.
January 25th, 2008 at 7:04 am
Hee hee! That was a great post!
My Grandmother used to always have warm fresh bread and “real” butter — the very best snack.
January 25th, 2008 at 7:36 am
my technique for spreading the cold butter… buy the fake squeezable kind
January 25th, 2008 at 7:53 am
Why are mothers the only ones who know where anything is? It drives me nuts!
Another great post!
January 25th, 2008 at 8:55 am
This post made crave toast.
January 25th, 2008 at 8:56 am
I always buy real butter I can’t stand the way that other stuff taste and not to mention I think it’s made of pretty foul things. The trick is make sure it’s always room temp.
Your son is doing a wonderful job at spreading his butter on his bread!
January 25th, 2008 at 9:37 am
Spreading, now I’m just jealous. James skips the bread and the knife and sticks his fingers straight into the butter. Perhaps jsut for the “That’s disgusting, get your fingers out of the butter” effect.
January 25th, 2008 at 11:26 am
You’re suppose to spread peanut butter? I had no idea.
January 25th, 2008 at 11:58 am
ah, but you enabled the magic by leaving the butter at room temperature! still, the grin on his face is priceless.
January 25th, 2008 at 12:09 pm
Delightful post. I love the juxtaposition of past and present.
January 25th, 2008 at 12:29 pm
Gosh, what a precious smile and a lovely story. Patrick spreads butter or, ugh margarine, on his bread about half an inch thick. I let him have it satisfied with the ability to spread anything whilst his father insists on the appropriate amount of bread topping.
January 25th, 2008 at 2:52 pm
I liked these past/present glimpses. And I still stink at buttering bread. LOL.
January 25th, 2008 at 3:54 pm
You grew up in South Africa?!?!
January 25th, 2008 at 8:00 pm
Ma’am, (Maddy) are you quite sure that you, yerself, are neurotypical?
You may consult your lawyer before answering. Anything you say may be held against you, even if it’s all cold and icky and slimy.
January 25th, 2008 at 8:50 pm
I loved this. My mom is from the Philippines and her hands are a lovely dark color. Mine are pale and stubby.
Oldest has the hands of surgeon or pianist.
And she is such a graceful, gracious person.
We’re nothing alike! LOL
January 25th, 2008 at 11:05 pm
The Dairy Queen, hehe, that’s fun. Spreading butter is a serious undertaking, I think it’s been successfully captured here! xo
January 25th, 2008 at 11:05 pm
The Dairy Queen, hehe, that’s fun. Spreading butter is a serious undertaking, I think it’s been successfully captured here! xo
PS–I still wanna know…is that shorthand on the blog and does it mean you can feel?
January 25th, 2008 at 11:17 pm
My mom cuts up apples and fruit and vegetables into perfect, symmetrical slices. Especially the apples—slice down the middle, set each half on its flat side, slice in half, a crescent cut to get the core out, and then slice the rest into quarters or slivers. Me being me, I just assumed anyone and everyone could do this.
But not my dad (sorry dad!).
Nor my aunts, on either side.
Nor my lovely husband who I don’t think ever had anyone slice an apple for him until me.
Charlie, you can be sure, expects those perfect slices—-maybe I should throw in a jagged one to test him…..
January 25th, 2008 at 11:48 pm
You’ve done well to counteract the troubles of your youth by making both bread and butter easily available in your home. Look at him go!
The rememberance of your Mum took me back to, well, my own kitchen this evening, when I despaired that my daughter couldn’t open the fridge herself.
January 26th, 2008 at 6:37 am
magician indeed.. woot!!!
January 26th, 2008 at 4:13 pm
My sister always mangles the bread or toast, and I shake my head in disbelief every time.
January 27th, 2008 at 10:03 am
i lived in a flat until i was 8. my mum favoured wholemeal vitbe bread and lurpak butter (way ahead of her time in the food stakes). so i had to go to the neighbours downstairs for white bread and proper salty butter. and bourbon biscuits.
i still prefer salty butter…