Like most mothers, my mom was overworked and underappreciated. She raised five children, worked part time, tried, with limited success, to keep my father in check, and, with even less success, to instill in her children, particularly in her rebellious daughters, a sense of rectitude. She was a product of her generation, her idea of femininity stemming from her pioneer stock and her depression-era upbringing. Her ideal woman was practical, demure, respectable, kind, nurturing, obedient, enduring, thoughtful, and silent. She had two daughters who were noisy, creative, energetic, single-minded, rebellious, contrary, and irreverent. Why did we turn out that way? Who knows? We were of a different generation. Had we been prim and proper, we would never have survived.
For all of her efforts, my mother got little respect. She judged us by a standard that didn’t make any sense to us. Even for our generation, we were sorely lacking in gratitude.
But once a year on Mother’s Day, we brought her breakfast in bed. How excited we were planning her special treat! It included the fanciest breakfast we could imagine—cinnamon French toast and strawberries, fresh-squeezed orange juice (a luxury in ice-bound New Hampshire), and fresh-perked coffee (usually reserved for dinner guests). By the time we brought her breakfast, she very likely had been up for hours—cleaned the house, sewed herself a new dress, weeded the garden, fixed the plumbing—but she fooled us, crawling back into bed when she heard us clomp up the stairs, covers to her chin as if she’d just opened her eyes.
She always looked surprised and gave us a rare smile—of delight and pride. On her breakfast tray we included a napkin and a newspaper, because that’s what we had seen on television, and a flower in a bud vase. We made her too much, of course, and she only nibbled at it. She seemed uncomfortable, to-do lists running behind her eyes like an accountant’s adding machine tape. But she played the part as well as she could, and stayed in bed until we lost interest and wandered off to play.
Americans don’t have breakfast in bed anymore. For some reason it is considered improper. If you have a day off, you don’t lie in bed. You go to the gym or the Farmer’s Market, then off to a round of golf. Breakfast in bed was a standard scene in movies and TV shows from the 30s through the 70s—perhaps a coded message for a great night of sex?—but I try to recall a single episode on current sitcoms where someone gets breakfast in bed. Nope, can’t think of one. I wanted to buy a breakfast tray—the kind with little legs—and couldn’t find one.
We are a self-indulgent culture without a doubt, yet our self-indulgence is ostentatious—the new outfit, the fancy restaurant or spa, the new haircut or car, the vacation. We crave an audience. Even our private indulgences—those expensive creams we rub on our faces and bodies—are meant to make us more beautiful to others. What happened to the quiet, sensual, reflective self-indulgence of an afternoon in the park reading, or wandering a museum by oneself, or a late afternoon glass of Mad Housewife wine? This is true self indulgence—doing something for you alone, for no reason but pure enjoyment. A simple pleasing of your body and soul.
Only as my mother grew old did she appreciate the joys of self-indulgence. It was fun to pamper her, and she looked surprised, giving us that rare breakfast-in-bed smile. I can’t believe you remembered, she seemed to be saying. I’m not worthy.
Of course you’re worthy! You’re our mother!
And for all you last-minute Mother’s Day shoppers, be sure to pick up a bottle of Mad Housewife wine, some chocolates, strawberries, and flowers. I guarantee you’ll get that smile.
Roquefort Timbales with Salad
Timbale is French for kettle drum, and refers to a crustless quiche baked in a ramekin and unmolded before serving. It often includes vegetables or seafood. This simple recipe combining pungent cheese and fruit is excellent for a Mother’s Day breakfast, a first course, or as a cheese and fruit course after the main dish. Serve with Mad Housewife Chardonnay or White Zinfandel.
4 ounces Roquefort or other blue cheese
2 cups whole milk
4 eggs
2 teaspoons butter
nutmeg
black pepper and salt
fresh berries and dried fruit such as figs or cherries
chives, chopped fine
1 tangerine, seeded and sliced
arugula or escarole
olive oil and balsamic vinegar
- Preheat oven to 350. Fill large baking pan with 2 inches hot water.
- Crumble cheese. Bring milk to a boil in a saucepan. Add pinch of salt, pepper, and nutmeg.
- Beat eggs. Whisk hot milk into eggs. Add cheese and mix thoroughly.
- Grease four ramekins with butter, then fill almost to the top with milk and egg mixture.
- Place ramekins in water bath, slip into the oven, and bake for 35 minutes.
- When timbales are cooked, let sit for a few minutes, then run a knife around the inside edges of the ramekins and turn out on a dinner plate
- Arrange salad around the timbale, and sprinkle with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and chives.
Happy Mother’s Day to all!
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