The Q-View

In the end, I just had to laugh.

Patience is not my best virtue, especially when I have to react to things on the fly. Planning is in my comfort zone; I like to know what is coming up. It has to do with control, I presume.

My most recent trip to my mother’s was a successful exercise in controlling my emotions. Barely.

I thought I would do my usual wash loads, kitchen cleaning, bed-changing, shopping routine. I’m fine with that because I expect it. I knew that two of my sons were coming later for dinner. I needed to cook the pasta and sauce and clear space at the dining room table, which was serving as a platform for one of the manger scenes and for a giant poinsettia, to accommodate four of us.

Not a problem; I figured I would just move everything to one end of the table, which I did. I got a can of tomato paste and made ready to prep dinner.

“I invited your three nephews to dinner, too,” my mother informed me.

Okay. Back to the cupboard to get another can of tomato paste.

Then the how-many-meatballs debate began, which resulted in a trip to the basement freezer to retrieve a zippered bag of meatballs. Then came the angst about how many were left.

“I’ll make more next week,” I promised, as I prepped the sauce.

“That pot is not going to be big enough for the meatballs,” I was told.

My irritation was starting to bubble at the same rate as the sauce.

“It’ll be big enough,” I said.

“You know, I’ve been cooking for eighty years.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said tersely as I shut down the burner under the sauce.

In the bedroom, I made a quick plea for patience and the Sign of the Cross, took two deep breaths, and headed back to the kitchen.

“Why don’t you use a bigger pot?”

“This is the biggest one that was in there,” I pleaded, pointing to the pot repository under the stove.

“Oh.” Scanning the kitchen, mom noticed she had used the biggest pots for cookie storage. I was directed to move the pizzelles into bowls, “carefully”.

I surrendered. I poured the sauce into the bigger pot and added the meatballs, 21 of them, three apiece.

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough.”

Sign of the Cross.

I added seven more and started to clean up the sink area.

“I’m going to finish making the chocolate chips,” mom said.

Now, this meant we were going to be both working in the crowded, open three-sided square that is made up of the stove, the sink, the oven and about six inches of available counter space amid the toaster, drainboard, beater, Keurig, dirty dishes and pots and pans, can opener, paper towel holder.

Sign of the Cross.

Fine. I went to set the table. I off-loaded all of the Christmas paraphernalia, took the tablecloth outside and shook it out since the giant poinsettia had started to drop its leaves. I set out seven plates and moved chairs around the table.

“Did you change the tablecloth?”

“I shook it out. It’s fine.”

“It’s dirty from the plant. I wouldn’t want to sit there.”

“I shook it out.”

“It’s dirty.”

Sign of the Cross.

I re-collected the plates, ripped the tablecloth off and replaced it with the new Christmas tablecloth we had given her. I finished resetting the table and took the trash outside to get some fresh air.

When I came back, I helped mom traverse from the counter to the table so that she could put the batter on cookie sheets; I checked the sauce, and I started emptying the dishwasher.

“Can you finish cleaning out the refrigerator?”

Sign of the Cross.

“You want me to clean the refrigerator? Now?”

“Just the bottom shelf and the hydrator drawers. I can’t reach them. Today is just a lick and a promise; it’s not nearly as clean as I want it.”

In another context, “a lick and a promise” would sound slightly pornographic (or something characters in “A Game of Thrones” or The Deuce” might say).

I reloaded the items I had removed from the fridge.

“Next time we’ll do the freezer.”

My kids showed up at around 5:30, and I was granted permission to start the water boiling for the pasta. I grabbed the supersized pasta bowl out of the china closet and washed it out.

A minute later: “Did you wash that bowl?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Well, I keep bills and letters in there. Make sure it’s clean.”

Sign of the Cross.

While the pasta was cooking, the cookie trays had to go into the oven, three of them. One at a time. Mom positioned herself next to the oven so she could check to see if the cookies were baked enough.

“I’m going to make a salad,” she announced.

“We’re good. We don’t need a salad,” I offered.

“I want some salad.”

(For the record, I was the only one who ate salad at dinner. I took the rest home.)

When the cookies were pronounced worthy, I pulled the sheet and put it on the cluttered kitchen table to cool and put the next sheet into the oven. By the time the third sheet was baking, I needed space, so I started putting the cookies from the first sheet into a bowl.

“They’re not cool enough yet.”

“Yes, they are. They’re solid and cool to the touch.”

“They need to cool longer.”

Sign of the Cross.

Fortunately, the salad prep was distracting, and I got the cookies off the tray.

Mom called my nephews to see when they were coming. They weren’t. Plans had changed because of an emergency. I unset three places. We finally sat down to eat. We amicably decided what to do with the remaining 17 meatballs and servings of pasta.

Sigh.

For the rest of the evening, I faded into the background as my mother and my sons enjoyed each other’s company. I was free to finish up all of the tasks at my own pace and without helpful advice.

My sister is right: We are going to miss this someday.

Unless I die first.