There are different ways of expressing the same sentiment, such as these three examples:

“Oh, that is such a lovely shade of lavender.”

“I seen a color like that on a pair of boxers at the state fair.”

“I love that cool purple shirt – reminds me of smelly flowers and old ladies!”
(Ding ding ding ding ding!  This is more along the lines of something I would say.)

I am my mother’s daughter, after all – not always very tactful in the way I present my thoughts, but certainly my intentions are sincere.

I’m also not an elegant and refined salad eater. Mom didn’t teach me to use a fork and a knife to politely cut the greens into small dainty bites. The older I become, the more I realize the stabbing of large pieces of lettuce is not the appropriate way.

I think it was in my 30’s before I recognized the fact that using my pointer finger to push corn or peas onto my fork wasn’t adult-ish.  And even at 51, I cannot resist the urge to lick my fingers during barbecue and fried chicken. Mom taught me to lick, yes she did. However, I do refrain from licking when preparing, and if I DO lick, I wash.

I have slight anxiety attacks when I have to make a meal for anyone who says the word “lovely” in regular conversation.

My Mom used to say, “purty” instead of “pretty.” And “worsh” instead of “wash.” And “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” instead of, “I thought of another way to accomplish this task.” She licked too, when preparing meals, but she didn’t always worsh.

I apologized at the dinner table last night when my macaroni and cheese did not turn out like the recipe promised. And Sam said, “You sound like your Mom.” Well, I cook like her too! She put some doozies on the table sometimes…burnt, runny, bad-tasting, not quite dones, homemade concoctions to “use up” solo items that no one had wanted to eat previously.

Back to last night. I DID, however, do something very unlike my Mom. I tossed the mac & cheese down the disposal after the three of us had to eat it for our meal. Not like my Mom at all. She would have served it for the next seven days until there was just a spoonful left. Seriously just a spoonful. She would save a spoonful and heat it up and then goad the family with, “We need to eat up these leftovers! What can I pass you?”

This time of year on the calendar is hard for me, but I will remember my Mom on these days and be grateful for the memories. I will avoid Facebook posts of daughters loving their mamas and turn the channel at the sappy commercials that bring on the bittersweet sadness, and instead, I will focus on my Mom’s mom-ness and not on mine.

So for today, I am grateful for Mom’s meals that were containered in cottage cheese plastics and butter tubs with cracked lids and microwave blisters.

I am grateful for Mom’s bluntness and less-than-tactful sincerity.

And I am grateful that in my eyes, my Mom was the loveliest of them all.