18. BUTTER

My brother says that the secret to the yummy in my cooking, if there is yummy, is to take all the ingredients and mix them together then add a stick of butter.
He's not too far off.

           
Parker sat on the black slatted stool at my kitchen island, his toes kicking the clapboard in front of them, his little five-year-old fingers holding an English Muffin, his eyes focused on keeping the balance right so that the lovely pools of butter filling the crevices and crannies in the toasted muffin would not run out before his sweet little set of Kindergartner teeth got to them.  I was at the sink, watching him delight in this new experience: his first English Muffin. 

“Gummy”…(that’s what he calls me…what all my grand kids call me)…”Gummy, this doesn’t look like a muffin.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t buddy.  Not like the muffins your mama makes.  This is how they make them in England, where your daddy went on his mission.”

I didn’t know if that was the truth, actually.

I listened as he gobbled and hummed, his throat instinctively emitting glottal tones of pleasure. 

“Mmmm.”

I knew exactly what he meant. 

“I know, buddy, how do you like it?”

“Ith’s really good,  Can I have another?”

So, as all good Gummies should, I took another muffin and caressed it in my fingertips until the two pieces broke from each other, their nice peaks and valleys fully intact and ready to fill the measure of their creation. I popped the two pieces into the toaster oven, tapped the button to start, and watched the glow of warmth appear through the oven window. The kitchen smelled like a winter morning on the best days of my childhood, that comforting aroma of toasted bread calling everyone to the kitchen table.

The timer went DING and the light disappeared.  I opened the toaster door and evaluated the muffins, deciding they needed about 45 seconds more to get the perfect gilt to the peaks.  So in they went, again.

When they were just right I slid them from the rack onto a plate, then slathered a nice chunk of good cold creamery butter on top, easing the chunk with my knife across the yeasty landscape until the chunk had disappeared and a series of golden mountain lakes appeared, like springtime in the Rockies. I slid the plate under Parker’s nose.

He scooped them up, nibbling and gobbling as the sounds of pleasure continued.

I turned to put the butter back in the cupboard when he said it:  Those words I knew were truth.  Truth I had learned in my own heart of hearts.

“Gummy…”  He said, pausing to take another bite.

 I waited.

“…melted butter ith GOOD!”

I stood at the sink, smiling at my boy, feeling like we had made this sacred passage together, like he had himself discovered the truth without anyone having to testify to him.

Our best truths are discovered seemingly by accident. They are nibbled in tasty little bites:

A sprinkle of kindness, a spoonful of humility, a sip of trust, a chewy chunk of tolerance.

Parker and his miniature siblings and cousins taste life in bite size portions and I am blessed to sometimes present those portions to them, and to even partake with them. Each new discovery is a testament to this old creature of myself, a witness that we are not simple little line drawings, but complex mosaics laid down one little pebble at a time.

You get old.  You become accustomed. You forget. Until these little reminders speak up.

And then you remember what you forgot you knew. Indeed, my little friend, melted butter IS good! 

Those Eyes

Look at those eyes! He’s gonna be a heart breaker, our Parker! Parker is the only son of my only son, John. He is a kind little 4 year old, sandwiched between two strong spirited sisters, Sophie and Ruby. Though both his parents and three of his grandparents have brown eyes, Parker’s eyes are blue. My eyes are blue. I’m just sayin’….

Parker goes to pre-school just down the road from our house. Mrs. T taught pre-school to his dad, and his aunties. She’s a good one! The other day I walked through the back gate and up the road to pick him up after school. We held hands as we walked along the sidewalk, talking about his friends and what he had done in class. Looked for cars and then crossed the street hand in hand, then when we reached the grass that leads to our back gate I moved in front of him. As we walked across the stepping stones this conversation began:

Park: Gummy?
Me: Yes, Park.
P: You have a big bum.
Me: I know.

We walked a bit more….

P: Gummy?
Me: Mmm, hmmm?
P: You have a big tummy, too.
Me: Yup, I do.

As we turned into the garage he moved in front of me….

P: Gummy?
Me: Yeah, buddy?
P: You also have a big face.

I stopped for a sec, then…

Me: Is that bad?

Parker stopped, too. Turned around, looked up into my eyes, cocked his head to the side and responded…

P: Nah, ith’s cute.

He turned and walked into the house. I followed him and we found some Play Dough.

I could have, had the spirit compelled me, taken this time to talk to Park about social grace, about how people are different and we should be careful with their feelings, etc. But he was wholly pure in what he had said. I was probably more comforted and warmed by his sincerity. There was not one ounce of malice or judgment in his comments. My size is simply an interesting fact to him. It has nothing to do with anything that matters.

I was pondering the interchange that night and I said a prayer that went something like this:

Me: Heavenly Father?
HF: Yes, Cori.
Me: I have a big bum.
HF: MmmHmmm
Me: and a big tummy AND a big face
HF: yes…
Me: Is that bad?
I didn’t see Him pause... didn’t see His eyes look into mine, nor hear Him answer. What I did sense was that He wanted to take my hand, walk into His realm and build something, maybe not with Play Dough, but build something with…something. I sensed that beating myself up about myself was going to keep me from enjoying the PlayDough of daily living. “Cute” is a relative term, and I suspect HF doesn’t really give much weight to anything like that. I’m just guessing about this. And though I’m also guessing about this, because I didn’t see them, I’m thinking today that His eyes were a heavenly blue.

POCKET

April 1, 2009 pocket
I wonder how many people have pondered the eternal nature of a pocket? Think about it, nothing lies as close to our skin as our clothing, and no place is as intimate and secret as a pocket. The other day Parker was trying to talk to Gumpa while they were working in the driveway, but his Binky interfered with their communication. His words were garbled as he tried to talk around the rubber bulb in his mouth and he got a little frustrated. So I suggested maybe he could take his Binky out of his mouth so Gumpa could understand him. Park is pleasantness personified, and he immediately took it out and asked Gump for a hammer. So here's this painfully handsome two year old builder boy pounding away with his little hand trying to hold a piece of wood and a binky at the same time, the other hand swinging away with his grandpa's hammer. In anyone else's garage he would probably just lay the pacifier down and pick it up later, but in our garage it would be a little worrisome to think you would be able to find anything you laid down. Sad, but true. Seeing this, I told Park to stand up and put his Binky in his pocket. He looked at me like I'd just told him to write a check or start the car, and I realized he had not yet discovered the magic in his little blue jeans. A pocket! Seriously, I would pay good money to preserve his expression when I showed him the secret place that moved with him wherever he went. Pockets in little kids' jeans...I have visited many of them. Checked them for decades on laundry day; coming up with rocks and pinecones, screws and acorns. Matchbox cars and marbles and Barbie doll heads. Now days I check Dave's jeans and only come up with Kleenex tissues. I am always so happy I checked before the wash cycle when I find those! But it kind of makes me yearn for the objects of discovery in the pockets of a pair of size 2 jeans.
I have a song called Pontiac Rocket, which is reminiscent of our travels in our blue Pontiac station wagon between Pittsburgh PA and Blackfoot ID. My friend El McMeen sent a note when he first heard it, saying this was a fine study in words that rhyme with "rocket". Think about it, (like you have nothing better to think about) how many words do you know in every day conversation that rhyme with rocket? I mean, who set up THAT pattern? Yeah...I did use the word pocket. Even moms in crisis find their pockets useful.