One of the cooking shows was on one morning back when my Mother was still with us.
I was hurrying around, as usual, looking for some papers I needed before I could jump in my car and get to the restaurant. She exhaled a long column of cigarette smoke from her chair by the tube still in her pajamas. I noted that judging from the concentration, velocity, arc, and distribution of that puff, followed by the subsequent stubbing out, that, as much as she was not overly opinionated, one regarding this TV “how to” was upcoming.
“What,” she asked me, “is the purpose of all of this tall food chefs are hell bent on serving these days?!”
You know how it is when you feel like you’re already behind the clock. Every delay is magnified by a factor of ten. This was not a two-word answer question. My mind reeled for a short, yet satisfying response as the smoke curled and tightened in the air. I could see the TV chef had just finished a dish of some, though not staggering height.
“A lot of it is just for looks Mom, not unlike the ravishing outfit you’re wearing right now, but sometimes it’s a great way to give some wonderful textural differences in food.” She rolled her eyes at my sarcasm regarding her garb but countered, “What does that mean?” with her match striking out either notion of too esoteric of an excuse or of me getting down U.S.1 just yet.
“Well Mama”, I tried “It’s like a great club sandwich. You bite through the warm, crunchy toast, through the delicate lettuces and juicy tomato, and the crisp, (again) bacon, through the meaty pull of smoked turkey and maybe the soft luxuriousness of avocado and so on.
If you laid out all of the components flat on a plate you’d never get that feeling.”
“I don’t like club sandwiches”, she said, “and… aren’t you late for work?”
Tall food. Towering woman.
I Love You Mama. Always will. Happy Mother’s Day.