Hi Ma.
It's your day -- it's your week, actually -- your birthday being on the day before Mother's Day, and all.
Sorry you're missing all this: we came to see you today, brought the flowers, the cards, but you weren't there.
You were on the boat up the inside passage, today; in your nightie, the one you have on now with the flashing LED Happy Birthday pin, and the Mylar balloon tied to your chair.
We were all there with you, you said, swimming, you said, and the water was warm, the cold salt chuck fed by a hotspring. Princess Louisa Inlet; you said. There was Guiness, and beer.
It was 1958, today, where you were and it must have been nice being where it was warm, and with all those young people around splashing like drunken ducks in the cold salt chuck fed by a hotspring.
Wish I could see their young faces like you can.
You knew who I was, today, I've steeled myself for the day you won't. It's a relief and a gift each time I see your look of recognition.
Sorry we missed you. We'd been coming as regularly as we could, but somehow you slipped by us. And now you live in 20th century places, far away from your sleek 21st century wheel chair; unconfined by the limitations of your old, beat-up, mid-century body.
In your nightie (the one you've got on now) you're up to here in the Sea of Cortez; or working at a job you never had that never gets done; or back at Northfield, Massachusetts turning up your nose at salt cod and studying Latin.
Funny how you can remember word-for-words of Mother Goose you learned in the '20's; or hear the voice of your long-dead sister-in-law asking in a snide tone if you planned to put on your shoes for dinner.
She really didn't mean anything by it, Ma (yes, she did). You were the looker that Dad brought home from college. A tennis player, a clothes horse, a Greek major, a bottle blonde from California who sometimes forgot and went into town barefooted.
That shouldn't be so wrong, but hell, Ma, it was Ferndale, WA in the 1950's and you were the banker's wife -- can't blame them for looking at you the way they did.
Your senses of irony and humor shine out sometimes like sunbreaks in a foggy morning, and it's nice to see you again; to get a glimpse of who you are.
Makes me wish I was eating a corned beef sandwich made with your clunky-looking, homemade 7-grain bread which we thought so embarrassing to be seen eating at school.
Suzanne's Corned Beef
1 piece corned beef brisket (about 5 lbs.)
Boiling water
1 tbsp. mixed pickling spices
1 small jar of French's yellow mustard
An equal amount of red current jelly
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Wash brisket. Place in large roasting pan on oven rack. Cover meat with boiling water; add pickling spices; cover pan with aluminum foil. Bake for 2 hours or until tender when pierced with that funny, old, 2-tined fork with the broken handle (in the drawer to the left of the stove). Allow to cool in cooking liquid. (This can be done the day before; refrigerate.)
About an hour before serving, drain meat and put in roasting pan. Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes.
Combine current jelly and mustard, cover the brisket with the mixture, and bake for 35 minutes more.
Eat hot or cold.
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