Filed under: Motherhood, failure | Tags: failure, Food, Italy, Motherhood, Zingerman's
A coworker has recommended the international deli at the corner of Fifth and Detroit for lunch. It’s the kind of sophisticated place that, had it been Saturday, and had I been running errands with my three young children in tow, I would have passed up in favor of a place with neon lights and a menu that included french fries. As it is, today is Wednesday and I am free of small, sticky hands.
The bell on the door jingles behind me and I am wrapped in the smell of a Mediterranean village, the smell of meat and cheese and bread and olive oil. For a minute I am taken back to a family trip to Italy, savoring a mid-day lunch at a shady picnic table. The sandwich is unlike anything I have ever tasted. The bread, baked in the outdoor hearth of zia’s house that morning; tomatoes freshly plucked from her rambling valley garden and olive oil pressed by hand.
I have been trying without success for years to recreate the taste of that sandwich with local grocery-store deli products and commercial loaves of pre-sliced bread marked “Italian.” Here, finally—hope. I order a ridiculously-priced pound of sandwich pepperoni, some prosciutto, a chunk of aged provolone, and ask the baker to slice a circular loaf of peasant bread.
While I am waiting, a petite woman with silky dark hair pulled into a low ponytail floats through the door, followed by her near-perfect reflection—a petite, dark-haired young girl of about six or seven. The woman is obviously a regular, waves to the man behind the counter, stops to inspect the day’s selection of breads. Her daughter is at home among the bagels and croissants. She thoughtfully considers this one and that one, eventually settling on a crusty French baguette in a paper bag.
They make their way to the deli counter where I am still waiting for my pepperoni.
“What would you like, dear?” Mother inquires. Daughter scans the deli case and points to a round wheel of cheese with a yellow casing.
“I think l’ossau-iraty, today, please,” she says, with perfect enunciation and manners.
Mother hmmms.
“Are you sure? You usually have the taleggio.”
“Oh, yes. I’m in the mood for something different.”
It is not simply the fact that this bright-eyed young girl can pronounce the names of exotic cheeses that surprises me. It’s that she actually eats them, and apparently on a regular basis, enough to know the difference between a refined French cheese and a chunk of cave-ripened Italian. I imagine how the scene would play out if my six-year-old son were standing next to me at the deli.
“Mom, look! That cheese in there is moldy! Gross! Do they have any chicken nuggets?”
Suddenly, I am painfully aware of all the ways I have failed my children. This mother, with her leather sandals and flawless pedicure, her glycerin-soap smelling skin and organic beauty, shames me. This is the kind of mother who takes her daughter to museums and symphonies. Enrolls her in tennis lessons and music lessons. Cooks a dinner every evening that involves herbs I’ve never heard of and calls for shallots or kumquats. This is the kind of mother who makes sure her daughter’s hair is always brushed and her teeth are always flossed. The kind of mother who takes her daughter to Europe, where she learns to say things like, S’il vous plaît, Monsieur, and grows fond of crusty baguettes and soft cheese.
A twinge of envy settles in my stomach and begins to gnaw. I think of the hurried life of a working mother that keeps me from spending leisurely afternoons in the company of my children. I think of them, dispersed in day-cares and schools, and I heap guilt on top of envy. I wonder if any of my kids could identify a kumquat. I wonder if I could identify a kumquat. I think about racing home at the end of the day, ordering pizza or reheating leftover butter noodles in the microwave. I can’t remember if my daughter’s hair was brushed this morning, never mind her teeth. I cringe at the thought of another vacation to Florida, cringe at my commonness and the mediocrity of my life in suburbia.
The petite woman with the life I envy notices that I am staring so I manage a half-hearted smile. She elbows her daughter, who is waiting for her ossau-iraty, one hip swung out, arms crossed, foot tapping.
“Stand up, for heaven’s sake,” Mother says. “You look like a hooligan all slouched like that.” She rolls her eyes at me, searching my face for a shared sense of indignity about the girl’s poor posture.
The daughter startles and straightens. Drops her hands to her sides. Looks up at me apologetically. I wink, and her lips split into a wide grin, big gaping holes where her bottom teeth should be. Just like my son.
I remember the time last summer when the clouds dumped buckets of water for a whole day and the driveway turned into a giant mud puddle. Kicking off shoes, stripping little ones down to diapers and splashing in the murky water. I remember hiking through the woods in the backyard after a fresh snow, pointing out skinny bird footprints and neat little piles of deer poop. I remember how my son begged me to leave the dishes in the sink one night so I could make popcorn and watch a movie with him. We sunk into a big beanbag chair together and cuddled and laughed while the dinner dishes sat in the sink until the next morning.
The daughter tucks the baguette under her arm and carries the cheese in one hand, waving shyly with the other as her mother ushers her out of the deli. Envy and guilt have been replaced by something else; something like the wistful longing I see in the daughter’s face as she passes the chocolate bars and colorfully-wrapped candies. I ache for her to know something simple and common: bare feet, skinned knees, hanging upside down on the monkey bars.
Later that evening, I assemble sandwiches on the kitchen counter with the peasant bread and expensive deli meats.
“Mom, this is the best sandwich I ever had,” says my son, mouth full of pepperoni.
I almost agree.
“Do you know what a kumquat is?” I ask.
He smiles, waiting for the punch line. “No. Is it a game?”
Soon my two daughters are echoing, I want to play kumquat. Can I play kumquat, too? And suddenly, I am aware of all the ways my children have never failed to show me what matters.
