I do not come from a long lineage
of cooks in my family. There is no legacy of lovingly tattered heirloom
cookbooks on my shelves or recipes tucked away inside the cold drawers
of a safety deposit box. My mother didn't cook. What I learned at her
knee was how to hang laundry from the line, the difference between sterling
silver and silver plate, and how to paint my nails.
There were no joyful conversations
over the slicing of tomatoes or the chopping of onions. We did not wait
with oven mitted hands for cookies to emerge from the oven. Never did
we tell secrets over mixing a batter. Cooking was a chore, and a bothersome
one at that. She shrugged it off, and I, emulating her, did the same.
But she did have one specialty that
she'd make from time to time. Fried rice. It was, and remains, my absolute
favorite, if-I-were-on-death-row-and-had-to-choose-a-last-meal dish.
So enamored was I, I would fill my dinner plate with it greedily and
half way through, get up to refill the plate out of fear someone else
would want seconds.
In elementary school, my class once
did a week-long study of different cultures. At the end of the week,
students were to bring foods from the different countries for a potluck
picnic lunch. I selected Asia and my mother reluctantly went to work
at the stove making the biggest batch of fried rice I'd ever seen.
The next day, I was sent off to
school with the treasure in a Tupperware bowl. I guarded it tightly
in my lap the entire bus ride in. Once at school, so selfish and greedy
was I, I placed the bowl at the very back of the table, covering it
with paper plates and aluminum foil. I watched it throughout the lessons
and games and songs and didn't dare approach it at lunch for fear my
classmates would discover it and I'd have to share. It remained untouched
until the school bell rang.
I approached the rice, thrilled
that the entire bowl was all mine and then it hit me. My fear that my
mother's feelings would be hurt if I brought home the full bowl that
she would have assumed was placed amongst the other mother's creations.
One of the hardest things I've ever done was slowly walk to the trash
barrel at the end of the playground, and overturn the bowl's contents
into it. I came home and presented an empty bowl to my smiling mother
who was pleased everyone had enthusiastically enjoyed her dish.
It was my first sacrifice as well
as the first time I realized that while I desperately loved fried rice,
it was nothing compared to the love I felt for the woman who had made
it.
I've learned my lesson with selfishness,
so twenty years later, I'm finally sharing.
About Tamra
Carraway: While
she does not clam to be a great cook, Tamra does write on occasion.
She is the author of the new book from Arcadia Press, "Baseball
in Mobile". We hope she'll keep writing.
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