I made a nice breakfast for my wife and my mother-in-law this weekend. My wife is delighted that I’m cooking, as she is attending to my mother-in-law who has been caught in her Alzheimer’s loop and is rereading the same page of the paper for the umpteenth time. It’s just short term issues that are indeed issues; she can recall other events with great accuracy and speed. And, she appreciates my cooking, at least in the here and now.
I chose waffles. Weekends are different from our normal, be sensible, “but-yogurt-is-so good-for- you-eat-light-run-out-the-door-workday-breakfasts.” “Save the calories for the weekend”, we say, doing the unofficial weight watchers thing, counting points, saving them for a weekend splurge, saving them for now.
I use a 1940’s era waffle iron, handed down through the family, at one time belonging to my mother-in-laws sister. It’s heavy and makes perfect waffles, and not just ordinary waffles; I am, after all, an artist. Using the old iron for me was a touch of poetic synchronicity for my mother-in-law, combining the indelible memories of her past with the cloudy present. She glanced over as I plugged it in and said with a grin, “Isn’t that Bessie’s old waffle iron?” I nodded and she said “That’s great! Do you like to cook?”
I made them from scratch, with organic rolled oats, a healthy dose of molasses, and a couple of handfuls of pecans. Pretty, different textures, tasty and lots of fiber for our baby boom generation dietary sensibilities.
“Something to cut the sweet”, I thought to myself, something to go along with waffles that my mother-in-law would remember and appreciate. I take inventory in the fridge seeking the perfect accompaniment. The answer of course was right in front of me, that hiding in plain sight thing. As I moved the eggs to check out what was hidden in back, I automatically set the eggs on the counter and smiled at the obvious… 3-minute eggs, a throwback to earlier times, a glimpse of familiarity, and a novelty to cap off the celebration of the weekend.
I had no egg cups… we used to serve our soft-boiled eggs in a small bowl with butter and salt and pepper. But I wanted it done like it was when my mother-in-law was cooking. Improvisation seemed to be the order of the day, and shot glasses were just the right size. No egg cups, but I have lots of shot glasses. A man needs priorities.
Breakfast is served. My mother-in-law smiled and asked if I like to cook. My wife smiles, cracks the top off her egg with a single tap of her knife, appreciating the message of the simpler time when things were different. “After we eat, I’m going to go downstairs and see if Sky King or Fury is on T.V.” she says. I smiled and reached for the syrup, as my mother-in-law worked on her egg with the dexterity of a surgeon. “How’s your breakfast, Nonnie?” I asked. “This is good!” she said. I smiled and dug in. “Do you like to cook? “she said. “I do” I said holding her gaze, “I really do.”