My mother was born in Paris but to very provincial Spanish parents. She married my father when she was 23, and he whisked her away to New Jersey to live. Princeton, but still. She had a lot of adjusting to do.
By the time I was born ten years later, you'd think she would have had ample time to acclimate. But, she clung to her old-fashioned, handed- down-by- Spanish -grandmother-ways. She steadfastly refused to succumb to the allure of the Breck Girl... She put lemon juice on my hair to lighten it, olive oil to moisturize it, and vinegar on to detangle it. I went to school smelling like salad.
Lunchtime was equally traumatic. Everyone else had nice, shiny metal lunch boxes bursting with cultural relevancy and advertising. I had a brown paper bag. The over-sized one my mother got from the grocery store. Wrinkled from multiple uses.
Mother’s Day was always a meaningful day in my life, but not because of my own mother. Because of my father’s mother. She was born on a day in May that fell on or near Mother’s Day. Each year her family celebrated her birthday on Mother’s Day, no matter what the date of her actual birthday. Her large clan would all come to her little house, deep in the Valley, to honor her. Most of them lived nearby, but not us.
We have all experienced great meals, ones that we talk and think about again and again. And then there are the meals and flavors that are so epic, they imprint on our brains forever. This, my friends, was one of those meals. It was just spectacular.
My mother’s name is Gladys, and the name just doesn’t fit her.