Indulging Our Mothers

By Marshall Watson

On a daily basis, Mother didn’t receive much pampering from her three boys, or our father for that matter. But despite our testosterone-driven, general sink-or-swim Midwestern attitude, the three of us and Dad softened up for Mother’s Day. After all, Mom’s birthday was May 13, and every once in a while, the stars aligned, and her birthday fell on that most famous of all, the “Hallmark Holiday” known as Mother’s Day. (We are, of course, from Kansas City, the proud birthplace of Hallmark and its saccharinely-sweet calendar of commercial jubilees.)

On Mother’s Day morning, we had to get up and help Lily, our Swedish housekeeper, prepare Mother’s bed tray (or “butler’s tray” as our great Auntie Rie referred to it—but she really had a butler; we didn’t). Mother’s Day pampering included eggs Benedict—lightly poached eggs on top a thick round of Canadian bacon on top a locally baked Wolferman’s muffin. Ah, those Wolferman’s English muffins were gastronomic heaven—thick, doughy delights soaked in butter and toasted to a rich, caramel brown in the broiler. They were way too thick to pop into a 1960s toaster.

And on top of this layered mountain was slathered Dad’s special hollandaise sauce. Now, our father never entered the kitchen other than to retrieve the well-seasoned porterhouse steaks for the Hasty Bake grill, or to make hollandaise sauce. So this was an event to look forward to!

The bed tray was a cerulean blue constructed of dowels, hinges and cross braces. The two-sided doweled baskets acted as squared-off legs that held the tray. In one of the side baskets was stuffed Mom’s favorite magazine, House Beautiful, and the Sunday Kansas City Star. In the other basket slot was placed the difficult-to-find New York Times. My brother Ridge, who relished using his learner’s permit, always quickly volunteered to drive to Bruce Smith Pharmacy to secure a copy. Dad, a conservative, did not like the New York Times. It was too citified and left-leaning for his taste, but once a year he would stoop down and buy it—only once a year—on Mother’s Day. (Mom was a liberal, so we never discussed politics.)

I was in charge of clipping the lilacs and putting them in Grandie’s cranberry glass vase. (Once a decorator always a decorator—started young, too!) Lilly spread a gray linen place mat with white crocheted cut work and a neatly folded matching gray linen napkin on top of the tray. The Dresden was brought out, because Mom loved its painted scenes of Wagnerian operas. The flatware was laid out beside the eggs-Benedict laden Dresden china. A crystal pitcher of very transparent tomato juice garnished with leafy celery stalks, which Dad had been preparing in the bar, perched regally on the bed/butler’s tray along with the other occupants.

Once fully prepared, we all traipsed up to their bedroom—Dad carrying the tray—where Mother sat in her pink champagne satin dressing gown. Though she acted surprised as she stamped out her Philip Morris, she wasn’t quite that good of an actress. Beneath it all though, she was kind of giddy, almost like a child. She could actually stay in bed, forgo her regular iced coffee, substituted by Dad’s thinned out tomato juice, dine on her favorite breakfast, pay no attention to her boys who would be taken care of by their father this one day, and languish for hours over her beloved New York Times.

If the 13th of May fell on Mother’s Day, she would also be serenaded with several choruses of “Happy Birthday” by her three sons including a mixture of lyrics also saluting Mother’s Day. As sour as our singing might have sounded—and it was always ear-piercingly loud—she dutifully applauded us. We pretended that her applause didn’t matter, but it did. Mother’s applause made us really, really good.

Our mother was a great woman, a great lady, and her pleasure and her happiness as a result of our efforts actually meant the world to us. I would do anything to see her delight in those pleasures and happiness again.

This Sunday be sure to spoil your mother, pamper her and always treasure her. Happy Mother’s Day.