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- From: "Harold Kitching" <harold.kitching01@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: "Forum chats guade forum" <guide.chat@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sat, 27 Oct 2012 16:33:41 +0100
The Power of Pasta
By Anne Crawley
Conscience is less an inner voice than the memory of a mother's glance.
~Robert Brault
On the day that I was married, I took the usual "love, honor, sickness,
health, etc." vows out loud. I made a few other vows to myself, one of
which was to stay calm and understanding about the incredibly close
bond between John and his mother. After all, he was thirty-three when I
married him, and he had lived with this mother that whole time, so a
few precedents had been set. The dating years had taught me that, in
the choice between her and me, I might get a sheepish look followed by
an apology in private later, but he would never take my side against
her in front of her or others. My mother-in-law, in her own way, is a
wonderful woman, and I could give her some unflattering labels such as
"quirky" or "difficult," but what comes to mind most is "very loving,"
in a unique way.
So I vowed to stay calm whenever he took her side, knowing that the
results of hurting her were far worse than the results of letting me
down. Or at least I hoped so.
And so it went for many years, smoothly as can be expected. My teeth
are shorter from grinding them down, and the neighbors have become
accustomed to my running out in the backyard to scream from time to
time, but, overall, it has been smooth, except for a random holiday
here and there.
As in all families, we had holiday "traditions," unwritten rules set in
concrete, never to be changed. Christmas Eve was at my sister-in-law's
because she knows how to do that seven-course fish thing so well. So
Christmas Eve was his family's. Each Christmas Day, we attended church
and spent the morning at home. Around noon, all presents opened, we
headed to his mother's for homemade cappelletti and ravioli. Around
four, we went to my mother's, pretending we were hungry because she had
worked all day preparing a turkey or ham dinner. These endearing, if
fattening, traditions were embedded in our lives.
As fate would have it, one year we just couldn't follow that routine.
It had snowed, snowed and snowed, leaving us buried in feet of white
powder. Our home is situated in a large natural wind tunnel between a
sizeable lake and a pond, giving us a double lake effect, plus a wind
chill factor worthy of the Arctic. We could barely open the door that
day and had to force the dog to go outside to do his duty. No one was
traveling; the roads were barely ploughed, and TV announcers urged
everyone to stay put. We almost did.
I knew there would be trouble. My mother-in-law began calling at 9:00
A.M. Those bags of cappelletti and ravioli that she had created were
bursting out of her freezer. It was Christmas. They had to be eaten
that day. Weather had no influence on her schedule or her cooking. I
said no. She called at 10:00, 10:30, 11:00, 11:30 and 12:00, frantic by 1:00.
It was Christmas! There were ravioli! About 12:00, John had started to
pace. From 1:00 to 2:00, we all shoveled, trying to move at least two
feet of snow off the house roof, as it was leaking more than usual. Of
course, this made him even hungrier. Thoughts of ravioli obsessed his
genetically-driven mind. I said no. Then I watched in amazement as his
primal instinct took over. He became crazed. Christmas and ravioli had
to be honored! I said no - we would not go out in that storm just for
pasta. At 3:00, he lost all control. "Get into the truck! Everybody!"
he screamed as he grabbed for the phone, dialed and yelled, "Put the
water on. We're on our way!"
It certainly was an exciting trip. We live at the top of a one-mile
hill, followed by a bit of level road, followed by a two-mile downhill
fondly known as The Wildcat, then a two-mile uphill stretch. There was
no "over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go"
because nothing could be seen but snow, waist-deep snow that sprayed
out on both sides of the truck as we ploughed our own path. We were on
the road, off the road, in a ditch, in the opposite ditch, but my
husband is a veteran of driving on roads like this, and his truck is
built for this challenge. The girls were having a great time in their
car seats, whooping at all the white spray. I had confidence in John
and very little fear, although I realized that my mother-in-law's
wishes were dominant again. In the true Christmas spirit (and because I
just LOVE her pasta), I hung on and enjoyed being the only family out
in that untouched winter wonderland.
We did not pass a single vehicle the whole way down, and the
twelve-mile journey took more than forty-five minutes. The bleak,
beautiful snow had brought the Valley to a halt - except for one blue
Chevy avalanche on an "emergency" ravioli run.
She complained as we walked in. "What took so long? The pasta is
getting cold!" Unbelievable. I almost decided not to eat at all when
she nagged like that, but even I could not hold out against Margaret's
homemade ravioli and sauce. I felt thankful and peaceful that we could
spend Christmas together - at least our branch of the family. John's
two sisters and one brother never made it, thereby proving to their
mother - neglected on Christmas - that their love for her was nowhere
near as strong as John's. John beamed.
My mother lived nearby, but we didn't stop in. She would have been
shocked, appalled, furious, unbelieving that we had left the house in
such weather. The ride home was faster, the road almost hidden in the
night. Our tracks were the only ones through the snow. John once again
made it seem like a Sunday drive in the park, even though he was
working hard to keep the truck in line. By the time we got home, we all
knew this had been a Christmas to remember.
Someday, I hope I have a child who loves me, or at least my cooking, as
much as John loves his mother and her ravioli. But I will insist that
they stay home until the roads have been ploughed.
You will
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