Sunday Story: It Needs Lemon

My mom

No recipe today. Instead, a Mother’s Day tribute. This is my mom in a pose that shows off her hands and gives a glimpse of the diamond ring I was obsessed with.


It NEEDS LEMON

My mother puts her hands on the kitchen table, one on either side of her empty dinner plate. Her knife and fork rest together, signalling she’s finished this course. She rests her elbows on the table and clasps her slender fingers together as she waits. 

“So,” she says as she extends a hand to clear our plates. Her diamond ring flashes under the overhead light. “New recipe. Do I make this again?”

Conversations end. Silence falls. No one is fiddling with their forks. My feet stop seeking my sister’s knee that is just begging for the toe of my sneaker. I stare at Mom’s ring in uncharacteristic silence. I carefully consider my answer to the question. Mom has my full, undivided teenage attention.

Each of us registers our vote as she takes our empty plate. 

Dad votes, Yes. Unless the dish is irrefutably inedible, he passes it by default. If I roll my eyes any further back in my head, I’m sure they will stick, just like Mom warns. In my conceited opinion, his vote shouldn’t count. He would be happy with cardboard and gravy. 

My sisters could go either way. They rarely suggest Worcester sauce to liven up bland Tuna a la King, or dill for the lacklustre potato salad. For them, each new dish is a go/no-go situation. Keep or toss. 

For me, straight lines are rare. Every recipe presents a tangle of culinary possibilities. I rarely give a yes or no, although when I do, I don’t wait for my plate to be empty. When a dish is stellar, I announce my pleasure before I’ve swallowed the first bite. There is no guessing my opinion. I share it freely. And often. When a dish is unworthy, I am equally vocal. My undeveloped teenage brain has neither tact nor restraint. 

Most dishes are filled with potential. Not perfect, not awful. They simply lack a dish-saving splash of citrus or would benefit from the omission of my arch-nemesis — peas. Herbs, Worcester sauce, sugar, or cinnamon are just a few of my favourite fixes. I dole them out judiciously, one at a time, inching towards perfection.

If the majority likes a recipe, Mom jots notes in the margin of the index card and files it meticulously in one of her many, ultra-organized recipe boxes. If we reject it, the recipe is given a hasty bin burial and left to disintegrate beneath soggy carrot peels and pungent onion skins. No egos were hurt in the making of this meal. If a dish didn’t pass, it was the recipe’s fault, not my mother’s. She was just following directions.

On rare occasions, a dish is a total disaster. Within a bite or two, Mom will have dropped her fork in disgust and frustration. “Well, I’m not making this again!” Should a source fail her consistently she might sigh and turn her head towards me. “Remind me,” she would say, touching my hand with hers. “To never use a newspaper recipe again.” 

She says this often, yet seduced by a fancy title, she clips a new dish from the local paper as if the rules have changed. 

They haven’t.

Mom looks straight at me as she takes my plate. Dad and my sisters have approved, but I am the holdout. Today’s chicken noodle casserole has potential, but I am not going to let it be. I hand her my opinion along with the plate. 

“It needs lemon.” Problem solved.  

“There was lemon in it.” Mom’s voice is matter-of-fact, without a hint of defence. 

Problem not solved. I twist to face her, pivoting on my elbow. I think hard. This is not a task to be taken lightly. I’m not lazy in my suggestions. More salt is rarely the answer. “Did you use the rind and the juice?” I ask.

She nods. “And the pulp.” Mom wastes nothing edible. 

We bat suggestions back and forth, judiciously making offers and counteroffers. Ideas scuttle about like peppercorns dropped on the counter. 

When we finally hit upon a solution that feels right, Mom announces it with a congratulatory, “Done!” She raps the table with her hands, and the diamond sparkles with delight.

I feel like an astronaut planting a flag on the moon. Yes, we have finally arrived, but we are not done. We are only halfway through the voyage. This is only a respite, a time to bask in glory before the work begins again. Will my suggestions work? We’ll find out next time. Tweak, taste, vote, repeat. That’s how it’s done.

Mom makes notes in the margin, her model’s hands printing in neat block letters. If my suggestion is exceptional, she will add a star or an emphatic underline. As she draws a crisp, sharp, double line under one of my ideas I nearly burst with pride. I’m shining like the diamond on her hand.