Grab the Maalox and run...

Ma’s in the Cupboard

“Keep looking guys.” I drag another wooden drawer from the kitchen and dump the contents onto the living room floor. “They’ve got to be in here somewhere.”

I sift the pile of crinkled napkins, loose marbles and faded photographs.

My son, Karl, hauls a second drawer; the weight rests on his thighs. “Where do you want this one?”

“No, not there, we’ve already gone through that stuff.” I fling my hand to a vacant spot on the littered carpet, “Over there.”

With a shift to the left, he lifts the rectangular box and starts to pour. Papers flutter to the ground covering the last naked spot.

“Okay everyone! Hit the ground and start searching.” I crawl on all fours, shuffling through twenty years of junk and treasures. Grant, my youngest son, turns a third drawer upside down and trinkets cascade to the carpet, paper clips inhabit my hair.

“Just what are we looking for?” Questioning stares come from my three kids.

“Recipes,” I answer.

“Recipes?” They echo.

“I hear recipes are big hits on the Internet.” The words flow. “All I have to do is post my favorite recipes and we’ll be rich.”

“Yours?”

A tremor of shock rattles the room, a bottle of antacids rolls out of the cupboard and the kids gulp in unison. Unfettered, I push the non-supportive threesome aside, sliding my hands into the collection. This is business.

I study an ancient piece of paper, the ink drawn and faded. Beyond the missing directions, I smell possibility. I fold it and tuck the paper in my back pocket.

Karl holds a tube of tub caulking and a bicycle pump. “I thought this was a kitchen drawer.”

“It is,” I nod and push a plastic ant out of my way.

“Whoa! Look what I found.” Erin cradles a toy ice cube with a fly in the center.

“Recipes, guys, recipes…” I toss a handful of expired coupons to the fireplace. “Everyone else is making all the money. This is serious.”

Voices still, fingers file childhood souvenirs into stacks while discarding non-qualifiers to the trash. A tiny bug escapes from the dusty drifts. Erin finds a party horn in the mess and toots a sour squeal.

“Remember when Mom put peas in the guacamole instead of avocado and thought no one would notice her fat-free pea dip?” Karl says as he separates items. 

“All right, that one bombed but how about…” I prepare to make my case.

“Yeah, how about when Mom gave her friend the strawberry smoothie, high in protein, and it exploded all over his office.” Grant ups the prosecution’s memory bank.

“It wasn’t my fault it fermented.” I protest.

“Or the day she lost the football bet and made the same guy a sandwich with the plastic cheese.” Laughter explodes and the lamps rock. “And he had a lunchtime meeting so he gave the sandwich to his boss.”

“So that one backfired but he gave the sandwich away, not me. “ I remind the gang. That was a good one, I chuckle to myself.  Cheese stamped ‘Made in China’. Even now, the post-lunchtime call ‘Lucy, you have some explaining…’ tickles my memory. Yeah, it was good.

Nonstop, my sons and daughter tally Mom’s mis-culinary moments; I intensify the scavenger hunt.  Kids or not, I won’t be derailed.

“I know, how about the Thanksgiving when she tried to make fresh cranberry relish and hammered the berries with the meat grinder?” Grant offers.

“Wasn’t that the same year the evaporated milk curdled and we poured our pumpkin pie down the sink?” Eyes meet and heads bob up and down.

Karl draws deep into his childhood and pulls out a winner. “One year she took us camping and forgot the food.”

 “That doesn’t count. How many years ago was that? Eight? Nine? That has nothing to do with my cooking talents.” I shove a magnet covered with two-inch nails, Christmas ornament hooks, and picture hangers to the discarded corner. Still, no recipe of worth.

“That was the same year she melted the sleeping bag,” Grant wipes streaks of tears from his flushed face, “and screamed there was a bear in the tent.” The scrapbook of haunts flips another page; the room bursts with ghosts best left to childhood memories. 

“All right, so I’m not perfect.” Slowly, I sort and shift miscellaneous debris on the floor. “I didn’t scream. I loudly suggested.”  I clear my throat and regain my Mom status.

Refocused, the mom bashing eases and we continue to rummage for recipes of wealth.

Soon, Karl holds a tattered paper, grease spots scallop the edges. “Look, Mom’s killer Boston cream pie recipe.”

“My secret recipe,” I reach through the air for the list of ingredients. Step-by-step, every word is clear and readable. Finally, I can post something. I feel my pocket book expanding with anticipation.

“Isn’t that the one that sent Grandpa to the hospital?” Erin asks.

Stone-faces stare at the paper, the room falls silent.

“Poor Grandpa,” Grant says; a whisper of empathy christens his lips.

I flop back on the floor; a thumbtack stabs the palm of my hand. A tiny Smurf figurine smiles from the mess. I don’t smile back.

“Maybe you should stick to writing football stories and bunny tales, Ma?” Karl says.

Ma? Just when did I go from Mommy to Ma, I wonder.

Strong arms wrap around my neck, a hug seals the question and we toss the tainted formula into the fireplace. With a crackle and a pop, my secret concoction succumbs to ash, and I concede the recipe battle to the cuisine experts.

THE END

AUTHOR BIO:

A 2005 USABookNews Humor finalist, Cynthia Borris, No More Bobs, resides in California. Numerous Chicken Soup for the Soul contributor and humor columnist, she is working on her next novel, To Serve Duck. For speaking engagements, contact author at website. She’ll bring the coffee and laughter but not the BOBS!   Quack, quack…