Offering

“Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.” Wally Lamb

	But what I was really asking: “Daughter, even though you are 20 now and even though you have your own house and even though you pay your own bills, do I still have something to offer you?” When my mother had nothing to offer my brother and me, my grandma offered to raise us. I picture her making this offer clad in her red apron with black piping and grease stains, standing in front of the stove. She offered herself every night at the kitchen table, the same one in my dining room today. She offered herself up in too-sweet tea. She offered herself up in green beans with butter and bacon. She offered herself up in the double breading on the fried chicken. She offered herself up in the warmed-up can of Spaghettios in front of my brother, who was too picky to accept her other offerings. She offered so much of herself up that we never left the kitchen table hungry.
But what I read: “Yes, mom, I still value what you have to offer me, despite the fact that I am 20 and despite the fact that have my own home and despite the fact that I don’t ask you for money to pay my bills.” I consider the evolution of offerings. My grandma offered me a mother in childhood and adolescence. As an adult, she offered me advice on how to mother. When she died Thanksgiving morning, the turkey was ash in my mouth. It gave me a taste for discovering what my mother had to offer me.
But what that means to me: “Blood is undeniable. I am you as you are your grandmother and your mother.” While my mother did not offer me a permanent seat at her kitchen table, she did offer meatballs and sauerkraut once or twice a year. I observed the ritual she performed in her kitchen, beginning with her selection of music. Her eyes scanned the options, but ultimately, they fluctuated between Kool and the Gang and Tina Turner. The queen reigned, of course, and Tina’s guttural cry kick-started the sway of my mother’s hips. She combined the meat, egg, seasonings, and rice in a large bowl with her hands, squeezing, choking, and squashing to Tina’s rhythm. Then, her fingers pinched portions of the mixture and rolled it into perfect balls between the palms of both hands. A final squeeze in one hand transitioned the ritual to the next stage of cooking before we consummated the ritual at her kitchen table, Tina’s voice pulling up a chair to join us. The meal wasn’t breaded or deep fat fried or sweetened like the dishes my grandma offered, but briny and pungent. Mixed with mashed potatoes, the meal formed a gray, mountainous lump. Like the lump in the back of our throats that kept us from saying all of things we thought about saying, or asking all of the things we thought about asking. I shoveled mammoth bites onto my fork and then into my mouth to force that lump down my esophagus. Tina provided us all the soundtrack of lump-swallowing. My children grew up eating double-breaded fried chicken, and they watched me prepare Thanksgiving dinner, donning the red apron with black piping my grandma wore. We sat down to eat meals at my grandma’s kitchen table. But they also grew up observing my ritual preparation of meatballs and sauerkraut, even though the pungent smell drove their father out of the house. The Rent soundtrack played in the background as they tasted the sour brininess, my oldest savoring every bite. Together, we sang along with “You’ll See,” “One Song Glory,” “Light My Candle,” “Today 4 U,” “Tango:Maureen,” and it seemed the notes dissolved the lump in my throat. Over the years, I learned that there is not only an evolution of offerings, but also an evolution of accepting them. I have stopped piling bites on my fork and into mouth in order to accept the fullness of the flavor and allow the lump to remain in the back of my throat. Its presence invites me to recognize my mother’s offerings:
	her mouth her eyes her freckles her taste for music her thirst for more her appetite for life