Before we aged, my mother and I, cream rose to the top of glass milk bottles, and eggs, large and brown, were sold in neighborhood grocery stores by storekeepers who bought from local sources. I was a nine-year-old girl hanging out at the table watching my mother make banana pudding. I never dreamed of growing older. Mommy would always be as she was right then, frozen in time, never changing, sending us away when we were bothersome and making us work when we were bored. A belt near one hand and a spoon in the other, it seemed the way it would be. Forever. With my nose too close to the bowl of food for her comfort, I never thought about age.
Focused and careful, with respect for ingredients, she slowly layered the baking dish with vanilla wafers, custard, and bananas until it was filled to the brim. Then she topped it off with meringue and baked it. She was a good cook, having learned her way around the kitchen after she married. Then her fingers began to curl, and the mixing bowl became too heavy.
Wavering between veganism and vegetarianism for decades, I just plain forgot about something as simple and delicious as banana pudding. I forgot about licking the bowl. I forgot about the sweet stuff.
My relationship with my mother was not an easy one. Daddy, after a hard day of brick laying, would walk into the apartment and ask, “Are you two at it again?”
She was not easy to please. But her banana pudding was royal. God bless her. She is no longer here to argue with. Still, I savor the memory of hanging over the side of her bowl, and the tenderness that manifested itself in a meringue that peaked just right.
It’s never been said that this bowl-licking life is easy. But when we get to lick the bowl, it’s sweet.
Sala
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