Learning From the Best

What Mom taught me went far beyond the basics of cooking.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” I said with an unexpected crack in my voice. The lump in my throat showed up without warning.

I lost my mom a little over two years ago, nine months after losing my Dad, and despite the passage of time, I’m still not completely used to the emotional “surprises” that can suddenly overtake me.

Mom would have been 86 today. She had a good, long life. And in the 58 years I was blessed with her presence, she taught me much. Today, in honor of her birthday, I am sharing one of my “Mom Stories.” With Mother’s Day a week away, maybe it will help you reflect on the lessons you learned, or are still learning, from your mother.

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This story was adapted from an earlier version I wrote four years ago, in May 2019. Mom, who taught me many valuable life lessons, died of cancer in March 2021, after living with Alzheimer’s disease for six years.

Our little joke had persisted for a couple of years. That’s the way it was with Alzheimer’s. Things were often repeated over and over again.

When Mom’s memory started failing, her organizational skills also disappeared. With those losses came her inability to find things in her kitchen, follow a recipe, and remember to get things out of the oven or off the stove. Consequently, there were several failed attempts at cooking. That’s when Dad took over much of the meal prep, even though his repertoire was limited.

“What’d you have for lunch today?” I would ask, noticing the bare refrigerator shelves.

“We had our usual BLTs. We’re kind of in a rut. We have BLTs or macaroni and cheese almost every day,” he said.

I did my best to add a little variety to their lunch and dinner fare whenever I’d come for a visit. I’d bring fixings for a pot of chili, an easy chicken parmesan dish, tacos, or a good old-fashioned pot roast. Well, not completely old-fashioned, as I used a crockpot for convenience.  

Mom would often help me set the table, while I prepared the food. If she wanted to help with the meal prep, I’d give her a small task like chopping lettuce for a salad. If the job didn’t require following too many steps, she could do it.

When the meal was ready, we’d sit down at the table, and after Dad said a prayer to bless our food, we’d dig in. This is when the banter around compliments started. The first time, it went like this:

“Wow, Linda, you’re a good cook!” Mom exclaimed as she filled her bowl with chili.

“I learned from the best!” I said. She looked at me with a questioning expression, not getting the reference at first. “I learned from you, Mom, and you’re the best!” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder.

“Oh! Did you?” she laughed.

Two or three minutes later, as our taste buds took in the savory spice, she said again, “You sure are a good cook, Linda!” The previous conversation had already been forgotten.

And so I hit replay. “I learned from the best!” I said, with another little love tap on her shoulder. She made the connection and laughed, “Oh, you think so?”

“Yes, I did!” I assured her. And it was true. I learned the basics of meat-and-potatoes Midwest cooking by watching Mom. I recall standing on a chair or step stool when I was little, observing her skill in peeling potatoes and slicing up vegetables from the garden. When I was older, she taught me the mysteries of browning the meat, measuring spices, sautéing, and simmering. She was no gourmet, but she didn’t need to be. We were plain folk, and ordinary farm food was all we needed to be satisfied.

As we spooned the last dribble of soup from our bowls into our mouths, we repeated the dialogue once more. “You sure are a good cook!”

“I learned from the best!” Cue the laughter.

The same conversation was repeated time after time over the next couple of years. Each time I prepared a meal, Mom praised my cooking skills and I gave the compliment right back to her. Each time she was genuinely surprised at my response, and she laughed.

Then, to my amazement, she turned the tables on me.

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My husband, my daughter, and I stopped by for a visit on the day before Mother’s Day. When lunchtime rolled around, Dad suggested BLTs. “Oh, I think I can come up with something different. Let’s see what you have in the freezer and pantry,” I said.

I thawed and browned some ground beef, dumped in a jar of pasta sauce, and cooked up some linguini. I ripped a head of iceberg lettuce into bite-size pieces and diced a tomato. Mom set the table and pulled some rhubarb sauce out of the fridge for a side dish. Twenty or so minutes later, lunch was on the table.

I could predict how the conversation would go. But that’s when Mom surprised me.

“Boy, Linda! You sure are a good cook!” Having just taken a bite, I paused a moment to chew and swallow before responding. That’s when I noticed Mom looking at me with a sideways glance, an expression of great anticipation on her face.

I swallowed my food and turned to her, placing my hand on her shoulder. “I learned from the best!”

“I was waiting for you to say that!” she replied with a hearty chuckle. We all cracked up, loving her spunk and still-present sense of humor.

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Although I thought I could predict my mother’s repeated lines, Alzheimer’s proved to be unpredictable. It kept us guessing. Just when I assumed Mom was not remembering any new information, she shocked us with a glimmer of recall, told a joke, and made us laugh and love her even more.

Even though her decline was unpredictable, Mom’s ability to teach me valuable life lessons remained until the end.

Her fading memory and loss of everyday skills were frustrating for her, but she handled those trials with grace and humor, forgiving herself, and accepting our help. She could be stubborn as well; but she was quick to smile and laugh at herself, stick out her tongue and be sarcastic, or just be her silly self.

When I was a little girl I watched Mom cook. I learned how to brown, dice, saute, and slice.

As a grown-up daughter, I was still watching Mom. I paid attention to how she managed the challenge of declining health and her failing memory.

If a person is fortunate enough to live a long life, aging and dying are the natural ends of living. If I’m still around in 20 or 30 years, I suspect I’ll start my own slow decline, be it mental or physical. Although I don’t look forward to that day, I hope I too can accept it with grace and a sense of humor, as Mom did.

After all, I learned from the best.