My Mother’s Knife

I write and think a lot about my mother. There is so much of her in me, I carry her every day. She taught me some of my life skills, maybe not the most important ones, like about my body, boundaries, boys and drugs and all that. But she did teach me how to sew, how to wash my clothes, how to cook. That may sound old fashioned, but the skills she shared have served me well. I know how to sew a button, scrub a greasy spot, cook pasta, and eat well.

Over the years I spent a lot of time with my mother in her kitchen, drinking coffee, or wine, combing through Gourmet magazines, making lists . And then we would jump in little mini and go shopping. She could park that tiny car on a dime. One of our stops would be at the liquor store where she could pull up in the back lane and have her monthly case of California red wine delivered to her car, and turn in the empty bottles. Then on to Kensington Market. She never paid attention to the “full” signs at the parking lot. She always found a way to wedge in her tiny car, and would be triumphant when she walked away.

And then we cooked. Her kitchen was her domain. I watched and listened, and I learned. I chopped stuff. I paid attention. My mom cooked from her heart, the food she made always had soul, beautifully presented, simple and perfect.

When I was in Toronto last summer I was rummaging around and found the knife. The knife she always used. I can see her hands wrapped around the handle. It is an extraordinary knife. I think she received it as a wedding present when she married my dad 70 years ago. Who knows? I have it now, and I use it every day. It has an awkward handle, but it never gets dull. So much like Mom.