Food is Love

19 July 2024

As I took my mother to the farmers market last week, a glimpse of her sense of humor, which I so deeply long for, came out as she smugly pointed to the caption on the KCK pizza truck’s tip jar, which read, “put your dirty money here.” She looked at me, and we both giggled. I was delighted to see my mom choose a Rainier cherry and chèvre slice of pie, while I reminded her for the twenty-third time where we were and why we were at the market. I explained we were here to get flowers for her birthday. And while we did get flowers and I did need to celebrate her birthday, which was actually five months ago (eyeroll), it is one of few things I could say to convince her to leave the safety of home. But the reason I was at the market was not because of my mom or her belated birthday, but because the market and food is love for me, and the feeling of my love is one of the few things that my mother can remember even after the moment has passed.

I first started noticing my mother’s cognitive decline around the time Roman was born. The birth of my first child inspired weekly visits to help me prepare for the farmer’s market. First signs of memory loss were the needed little reminders of things said seconds prior, as well as forgetting why she went to another room. I noticed it intensify week after week. After a few years of escalation, my mom is still not cognizant of my additional three children, and worse still, wouldn’t be able to recall my name if asked.

As I face the reality of losing my mother, I find myself slipping into the desire to know her more. Her books I never read, the articles I never obtained. My mom was a reporter in her pre-motherhood life. Her ability to follow the flow of the river of life led her to quickly climb the ladder of the journalism world and even be nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

As a little girl, I remember my mom coordinating book signings at Powell's Books and collecting little tidbits from my and my sister's childhood life to add to her weekly column in the Oregonian, "On the Homefront."

Reading, From Deadlines to Diapers, for the first time in my life, I find myself falling in love with how such a smart and accomplished woman struggled with the career of motherhood. Each moment of every day, I admire how both of my parents managed me and my five sisters, as I corral and herd my gaggle of children.

In stark contrast to the witty, intelligent, intellectual woman I was raised by, I now hold hands with my mom as I would my children, gently encouraging and shepherding her along. There is not much to say in our sweet short moments together; no conversations can be had. But the sweet, gentle and deep knowing of our love for one another is something that neither life nor death could erase.

The last few emails I have written to our beloved customers remind me of my mother’s weekly articles from my childhood. I can’t help but feel the gentle and shaky passing of the torch from my mothers hands to mine in this way. I look forward to continuing these delightful, short love letters in hopes of gently reminding you of our love. The best and most potent way to feel this expression is through our food.

I encourage you to dine in our sweet, intimate restaurant where George and I can grace you with our food and therefore love, tableside.

Until next time,

Lovingly,