High on a back shelf in our
closet is dollhouse, flanked by old cleats, golf clubs, hunting gear, a box of
army men, and one of Hot Wheels. That's not to say all things feminine are
tucked away. But it is symbolic of a woman outnumbered by three sons and a
husband – along with a horde of male friends. And yet, my wife is in
total control.
Among the many reasons I
married Ann Marie, none of which included a shotgun, are her skills in the
kitchen. They are mesmerizing and call to the male species like the Sirens of
Greek mythos. Even the biggest, most athletic boys in the neighborhood will
wander into her kitchen and, without regard for their own masculine cool, tie
on an apron and help her bake. Fresh in from a game or practice, they file in.
"Hi Mrs. Falloure," they'll say with eyes fixated on the piles of chocolate
next a bowl of fresh made icing.
"Wipe your feet and wash
your hands," she'll say as she prepares a workspace for her trainees. There, in
full uniform, clean or dirty, be it baseball or football with full pads, are
boys wearing aprons while stirring, breaking up chocolate, or dolloping batter
into cupcake forms.
It is a sight to behold.
My wife was certainly born
with talents embedded in her Sicilian DNA. But she has also acquired her skills
from a lifetime of practice that began we she was hardly 4-years old. Back in
the day, her natural mother was gravely ill and, as a young girl, my wife took
on the role of preparing meals for herself and her younger brother. Much of her
inspiration was found in the kitchens of her paternal grandmother, and maternal
aunts.
But Ann Marie also formed a
close bond with a neighbor who lived behind their house, and with whom she
spent many hours learning how to bake – mostly by feel and instinct,
rather than exact measurements and recipes. Ann Marie carries on that tradition
with many of the girls that live on our street or near by. And it gives her a
much-deserved break from the coarseness of so many boys.
So as we celebrate Mother's
Day this weekend, I offer this tribute to a woman in the words spoken by her
own sons this very morning. "Mom rocks!"
Copyright 2009 by David Falloure
