Canned

Recently, a colleague of mine leaned in toward me and stated in hushed tones, "Sometimes I just need to open up a can of peas and eat them. I know fresh is supposed to be best, but the taste of those mushy pale peas is so comforting." I followed up with a confession of my own. I am on a canned bean binge, french style with a little added butter. Insipid deliciousness.

Somewhere along the way, the whole farm-to-table movement has convinced us that nutrition and sophistication can only happen with fresh veggies and fruits and grass fed, free-range, happy livestock. Charles Birdseye and Nicolas Appert would roll over in their graves if they heard such chatter. Both scientists were pioneers in staving off hunger and starvation with the inventions of freezing fresh foods and the canning preservation method. Most of us would not be here today if our ancestors did not have access to such technology. Scurvy, be damned.

With full abandonment of the fear of public shame, here are a few more of my canned delights.

1) Sardines--Slippery little fish, eyes and bones included, what's not to love? I am a little picky on brand and brine. I prefer good old Chicken-of-the-Sea, slightly smoked, packed in oil. Scoop the little fishies onto a saltine and you have a tasty morsel of goodness.  Full disclosure: Chicken-of-the-Sea does not know I exist, therefore, no monies will fill my coffers for mentioning their name.

2) Cream-of-Whatever-Soup--Sorry, Martha Stewart, cream soups are pure midwestern magic in the land of casseroles. I can spend the extra time creating my own bechamel or beurre blanc sauces, but hot dishes cry out for something with a hearty soul. Add a can of creamed goodness to a meat, vegetable and noodle of your choice and you have dinner in a flash.

3) Spaghetti sauce--I am not Italian so my palette is a little weak in this department. My attempts at transforming a burbling, sputtering pot of tomatoes into a delicious sauce have been epic fails. In addition, I don't have the patience for long term pot simmering, stirring and sipping. Canned sauce dresses up my pasta just fine.

4) Canned peaches--We have about a ten-day window for good fresh peaches in the upper midwest. The other 355 days demand a little flexibility. My mother's canned peaches were the best, of course, but there should be no derision for enjoying a can of Del Monte sliced peaches. Add some crumbled topping for a delicious crisp or just slurp them straight out of the can. Fresh, no. Tasty, yes.

5) Pork and Beans--Dried beans scare me. Do I soak them overnight? Do I try a quick soak? Do I add baking soda to cut down on possible flatulence? How long should they cook before they turn into mush? Enter, a can of pork and beans. Pop the top. Fish out the flaccid piece of pseudo bacon. Add a few ingredients to spice them up. Heat. Serve. No more questions.

I hope you are able to enjoy a can of something this week. Your secret is safe with me.

Attached

By now, most of the Mother's Day bouquets are starting to fade a bit and the cards adorned with flowers, birds and lace are tucked away for memory's sake. We have survived another round of honoring mothers. Some of us have aged mothers facing the challenges of compromised abilities. Others have young and spry mothers still in the prime of their lives. Many have mothers no longer with them due to death or estrangement. And some have mothers they have never known. Biology makes it clear that all of us have a mother. Sociology reminds us that the manifestation of motherhood is often murky.

My own mother was a stalwart of consistency. Her definition of motherhood was making sure all seven of her children were fed, clothed and bathed. She faithfully drove us to doctor's appointments and school activities. Church functions were never considered optional. Piano lessons were highly encouraged and sports were supported if one of us was so inclined (most of us were not).  Hard work was prized and slothfulness was considered the devil's handiwork. She and my father were a team of well-coordinated disciplinarians and woe be to the child who broke the rules.

One thing my mother was not. She was not warm and fuzzy. Her DNA made it such that hugs, smooches and "I love you, darling" were not a part of our formative years. My own daughter has witnessed my genetic disposition to the same mothering style. Despite the lack of demonstrative affection, however, I never for a second felt my mother did not love us.

As my mother slips further into the grips of dementia, I witness glimmers of her affection for her children. She lights up like a Christmas tree whenever she receives a card or call from one of her kids or grandkids. She lovingly arranges and rearranges all her photos of us. She criticizes herself for not being a better mother in her eyes and marvels at the accomplishments of her children, despite her perceived shortcomings. She listens to our heartaches and reminds us that we are going to be okay.

Once a month, I entertain the residents at her assisted living home by playing the piano for them. Often my mother fusses about a woman who complained to her that my playing was too loud. I always tell her not to worry about it. I have been playing at senior centers for twenty years and I have heard it all. Finally, she looked at me with a mother bear gleam in her eye and said, "If she says it again, I am going to tell her she can just leave and sit in the entryway until it's over." At that moment I felt a surge of overwhelming devotion. Hugs and "I loves yous" may be awkward gestures for my mother. But, criticize one of her kids and you better beware. Momma is going to do what she has to do.

Here's to the mommas of the world. May they be given gracious children.