Some holidays have a longer comet trail than others. Christmas, for instance: Weeks afterward, people padding around in their stocking feet may get stabbed by a dried needle of yuletide fir. Halloween’s gluttony is followed by days in which hollow-eyed children insist they didn’t eat candy from their stash before dinner — and that’s not chocolate on their cheeks, honest it isn’t. Mother’s Day typically lasts no longer than the 24 hours allotted on the calendar. A family may knock itself out for a few hours — bringing coffee in bed, making cards, maybe taking mother out for brunch — but by the next morning the event is safely in the rearview mirror and people are asking her again, “What’s for dinner?”
So imagine the surprise of a woman who approached her kitchen the next day with the intention of answering that question, only to be fended off by a panicked cry.
“Don’t come into the kitchen!” a young voice yelled. “Don’t look!”
“But I need to start dinner,” the woman called from the next room.
“No! I am making dinner! It’s a late Mother’s Day surprise!” cried the voice. “Actually, it is a feast!”
There was a pause as the mother considered this fork, as it were, in the road. Down one tine, to extend the metaphor, was the practical imperative of preparing a proper meal for a houseful of people. Down the other tine was impracticality and whimsy, a letting go of the custom so as to accommodate a motivated junior chef. Logic and custom argued for Option A but as is often the case with the happiest moments in family life, the woman surprised herself and chose impractical Option B.
“Well, that’s a relief.” she announced, carefully not looking around the corner, “as I was particularly hoping not to have to cook dinner tonight.”
“Thank you,” yelled the cook, and recommenced operations. From the kitchen came banging, the chink of dishes, and a sudden, “Whoa!” Cupboards opened and closed; the tap turned on and off. The chef could be heard chuckling with satisfaction at some triumph. Then from the dining room there was the whoosh of a tablecloth and the clink of glasses.
“Dinner is served!”
Everyone filed into the dining room, and their jaws actually dropped at the beauty and eccentricity at the dishes laid before them.
There were apple slices arranged in the shape of a flower, with a dollop of peanut butter at the center. There were chunks of bagel spread with raspberry jam. There was a plate of pretzels (carefully buttered), a saucer of minced grapefruit, and a dish of avocado and tomato napped with olive oil and sprinkled with salt. There was watermelon with orange segments, mango sorbet with frozen raspberries, hunks of banana smeared with chocolate-hazelnut spread and a tray of jumbo marshmallows, each also wearing a corona of chocolatey goo.
“Wow,” the chef’s family breathed, smiling at one another.
“This looks … unorthodox?”
“Colorful …”
“Delicious,” said the eldest child decisively.
And, reader, it was.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
