Measuring Spoons and Meltdowns

Since 360 bit the dust I haven’t been blogging. I’m not sure why. I think about it a lot but never actually do it. Most of the time I decide that whatever I was thinking about posting is too boring or irrelevant. Sure everyone should write for themselves and not for others, but when the self in question struggles with its own purpose, meaning, and relevance, journaling takes on another meaning. Add a move and a bunch of kids into the mix and it is easy to just decide there isn’t time even though that isn’t really true but I digress.

My mom took her own life in 2007 shortly after my son was born. One of the first things I did once we got to her house was to collect her baking things: mixing bowl, measuring spoons, measuring cups, rolling pin, rectangle aluminum cake pan with lid, spritz press, wooden spoons, congo bar pan, etc... Mind you in a contradictory moment of severe self pity I got rid of her small frying pan because she would never be there to make me another “dippy egg” but holding onto the implements for cookies, congo bars, and krispy treats felt different. Using these things has brought me some comfort over the years even though I miss my mom terribly.

To make matters worse, last fall our place in Siler City was broken into. How does this relate? They stole my mother’s ashes. To this day they have not recovered her remains. Admitting this sounds ridiculous but it makes this weekend that much more palpable.

This brings me to Saturday morning. Fall was in the air, plans were made for hitting a small pumpkin patch and painting the porch in Siler City. Jtf made pancakes and coffee. The weekend was off to a good start. I go into the kitchen to start cleaning up and find my mother’s measuring spoons warped. Nausea, anger, sadness, all come flooding in. Yelling turned to tears and honestly had I not had a 4 year old watching this unfold I am not sure the kitchen would have survived my emotions.

Someone put the measuring spoons through the dishwasher (and no not jtf). They are old, plastic, from the 1970s. Why anyone would assume they are dishwasher safe is beyond me. I only ever use them for dry ingredients so a quick rinse in the sink and they’re good to go. Which is why, in fact, I had not placed them in the dishwasher myself and had left them on the counter. Are they still useable? Yes. Are they just a thing? Yes. Do they represent something more? Yes. In my mind they were seasoned with my mom’s touch and that has been thoughtlessly stripped away.

In a matter of seconds, my heart was broken. The tender scab on the wound had been ripped off. Copious amounts of salt poured in and the pain was too much. It feels like little by little what I have left of my mom is being taken away from me.

Nothing needs to be said. Life will go on. In time things will settle back to baseline. As anyone can tell you, you don’t get over these traumas, you learn to live with them and some days are better than others. Hoping for some brighter days ahead...