The Day My Mother Stopped Cooking
We're all lost in the kitchen
My son and I were greeted by my father at the front door, but it wasn’t until I entered my parent’s kitchen that I saw my eighty-five-year-old mom.
She was standing next to an empty cutting board and a bare counter. She turned to me with a puzzled look, like she had a question she wasn’t sure how to ask.
My parents live about an hour’s drive away. I’d been trying to visit more often since learning of my mother’s slowly progressing dementia. Selfishly, I’d steer those trips toward dinner time so I could enjoy her food.
As was typical of sixties-generation moms, my mother shouldered sole responsibility for our family meals. It didn’t matter if she was making meatloaf from scratch, mouth-watering red-bean chili, roast chicken and a tossed salad, or just our ritual weekly round of TV dinners—she always seemed happy to cook.
I paid little attention to the spices or ingredients she used growing up, but what I do know is that resentment was never included in the recipe. Having family around has always been a primary joy for her. Given that food brought us to the table, fueled our conversation, and bonded us together—she produced those meals with enthusiasm. Whatever came out of the kitchen by my mother’s artistic hands was soothing, nourishing, and delicious.
I’d consumed thousands of those meals as a small child, of course, but plenty of them came later, during adult visits with my own children in tow. The pleasure of enjoying my mother’s cooking as a parent has been a singularly comforting experience. And the matriarchal nurturing baked into those meals was evident to her grandchildren as well.
But on this particular day, as she posed the question knitted into her brow, I discovered that cooking was not an option.
“Will you make dinner?” she said. “I can’t even remember where the frying pan is.”
A lot happened at that moment.
Decades of established roles, identities, and expectations vanished in an instant. As a statement, it was up there with, “Will you marry me,” “It’s a boy,” “You’re hired,” and “We’re selling the house.”
As a statement, it was up there with, “Will you marry me,” “It’s a boy,” “You’re hired,” and “We’re selling the house.”
They were words that signaled the changing of lives, a past era concluding, and a new one beginning. It wasn’t lost on me that I may never eat a meal prepared by my mother again, as I knew her memory had been failing—but there was no time for grieving, because it was mixed with the joyful opportunity to prepare something for her.
We literally swapped places as I took up her spot on the linoleum tile and she pulled up a chair at the dining table. We chatted while a surprise meal took shape from the motions of my rummaging through the cupboard and the fridge, and from the emotions of my desire to care for her.
My father wasn’t yet cooking at that time, and my mother assumes full blame, admitting that her desire to maintain control over the kitchen left him on the culinary sidelines. My dad has since expanded his kitchen competencies beyond a can opener, but at the time, it was just me herding pots and utensils.
I found sweet potatoes to bake, enough peppers, zucchini and broccoli for a stir fry, an older head of lettuce with retrievable leaves hidden among the wilt, grilled a couple of chicken breasts, and found just enough ice cream in a tub for dessert.
I watched my mother’s shoulders drop and her face soften as she let go, relaxing in the chair. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have someone else do the cooking,” she kept saying.
Mothers are the nexus point of families. They produce the child, which in turn causes the couple to surrender their independent lives to the birth of the family unit. My mom was a child herself, to a mother who delivered her and then brought food to the table. She once stood in her own mother’s kitchen with no knowledge of how to peel a potato, where to find a knife or a strainer, how to safely operate a stove, or orchestrate a family meal. But she learned.
And now, the forces of nature were recalling that education, and in being relieved of the knowledge, she had to surrender a role. A quality of surrender, I might add, that I aspire to. On many occasions she has said, “I don’t know why I have this dementia, but I’m convinced it’s for a good reason. There’s something I’m supposed to learn.”
The most poignant moment of the evening was sitting across from my mom while she spooned those steaming dishes onto her plate, and through the mouthfuls of food exclaimed it was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten—even though I knew she’d lost her ability to taste years ago.
There I was, discovering my capacity to imbue food with the flavor of love, but also suddenly seeing my place on the wheel.
Life is quite simply a cycle.
We are cared for, then we care for others, and then eventually we must accept care again.
It’s only a matter of time before I’ll need to ask one of my kids to cook in my stead, because I’m at a loss in the kitchen. When the time comes for me to step away from the cutting board, I hope I can ask for help with some of the dignity and surrender shown by my mother, who I’m still learning from.
We all start lost in the kitchen, and feeling lost in the kitchen shall mark our return. It’s a natural part of the plan.
But in this season, it’s a joy to get to cook for my elegant and loving mother—and to write for her as well, as she still reads my articles.
So Happy Mother’s Day mom.
I can’t wait to see you and dad in the morning at our place. I’m going to make you the most delicious veggie omelet you’ve ever not tasted. It’s your time to let go of how to crack an egg. It’s my time to know where the frying pan is.
We’ve got you.
Thank you to my fellow Write Hearted authors who provided useful and supportive feedback on several versions of this draft, and especially
, , , , , and Vicki for your help.
Just beautiful, Rick.
My favourite part was when you said there was no time for grieving because it was mixed with the joyful opportunity to prepare something for your mom.
That was until I read your mom’s words: “I don’t know why I have this dementia, but I’m convinced it’s for a good reason. There’s something I’m supposed to learn.” 😢
And there, I thought, there is the unmistakable family trait. The perspective. The humility. The positivity. Like mother, like son.
Rick, man, this is beautiful. There’s this awe inspiring feeling of welcome running through the whole piece - from the description of your mom to your willingness to jump in and take the baton. It felt like I was in that kitchen. And beyond the reader experience of being there, the theme of “welcome” cuts through fears, of getting older, of having to rely on others for help… and it shows in your mother, father and you - carrying that quality personally and in your words is like the ultimate acknowledgement of the blessing that is service to family. Your post becomes a way of showing “you’re welcome” such that “thank you” need never be said again. Very cool how you did that.