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I savor things. Nothing is quick, everything takes as long as it needs to. Every bite, every action begins with a t—ease, and each d a y is d r a g g e d o u t as l o n g as possible to indulge in each moment. Sex is an act, but making love is a production, orchestrated with intermission. Stop watches are only necessary to see how long we can do it for.
What’s the rush?
I’m always the last person eating at a meal too. I love food. I live for food. I dance with delicious bites. I have a romantic adoration with food and I don’t care who knows about it! If only I was born during that time when weight mimicked wealth.
As a child of the eight-nineties, I say it this way because technically I was born in ’89 but then clearly was only influenced by the decade second-handedly: hair, clothes, smoke. Even though I was lucky enough to have a mother that cooked delicious home cooked meals regularly, I was also regularly tempted and held hostage by those damn chains. There’s a reason they’re called chain restaurants — because they trap you and hold you in a cave of shame an regret! In my prime though did I love me some McDonald’s (ew), Arby’s (Gross), Pizza Hut (guilty pleasure, but vom). Like everyone human, I was obsessed, and I savored this garbage too. Eating the breading off of some of my 20 nuggets from McDonald’s as step one and then moving on to let the fake chicken melt in my mouth. The Watta-Melon Roll from Friendly’s was better anyways when the whole slice melted to a soup. I would shred jello through my teeth, spit it out, and re-eat it in its new form with a spoon because I’m a lady.
Thinking about all of this now makes me queasy. I disgust myself. I don’t eat from any of those “restaurants” anymore, and it would be dire times before I did again. I do appreciate though that when I was there was no food beneath me to savor. They all received the same five-star digestion! That is food inclusivity!
While fast food was just that: fast; meals were time to really sit and be with someone. Meals allows for connection and sharing and intimacy. Being the last one at my Meema’s table eating meant I got to keep listening to all of my aunts and uncles tell and retell their stories and persiflage, eventually getting to my mom and uncle debating over who’s forehead was bigger. I’m am so happy I didn’t miss these! Playful arguments of foreheads being used to land planes and serve as solar panels; truly absurd. Taking longer at a restaurant allowed for more of an opportunity for my dad and I to actually have a conversation — it never happened, but there was plenty of time. Longer meals meant more time with my mom or my sister, just me and them. I cherished every second in each of these times.
Those meals around my Meema’s table don’t happen any more and they never will again. I haven’t spoken to my father in almost five years. My mom is dead. My sister lives on the other side of the country. I knew early on that our time together is precious, so trust and believe when I share a meal with you, I am basking in your company more than the food.
Well, I guess it depends on the company…
I am human and sometimes I rush through a meal too. Sometimes I am in a mood and just want to get home. Sometimes I let my emotions get the absolute best of me, wear my moods on my sleeves, and act like a shit.
I was a shit this day. It was a Friday in May. I took off from work early to bring my mom to the pulmonologist. She put this off for so long. Finally! But, I’m thinking about work and my students. Now, I have to reschedule meetings and, *insert baby crying* take my mom to the doctor. I decided today of all days to be a brat.
No one likes waiting rooms, but I get the opportunity to finger through my new book on Amsterdam since I’m traveling there in two months. I’ve already booked everything, made our full itinerary except for two of the ten days, and I could not be more excited to travel through three different countries with my wife. I should be in a better mood.
We finally head back to the doctor’s office and they do the routine assessment. Eventually, the doctor checks her breathing. We are there in hopes that they’ll approve her for a portable oxygen tank — we’ve been lugging around small tanks but their designer’s version of small isn’t small. There is a life-size oxygen tank in her living room that we use to replenish these “small” tanks, but without me there to help this isn’t feasible for her. It’s not practical to go about her day with these. She’s not a bodybuilder.
The doctor says her breathing is great. Her levels are good! That is truly fantastic news, but now it worries me about this damn approval. I worry that we waited too long. Why didn’t we come sooner? Well, good news is her better levels are still pretty bad. The doctor confirmed that she should be approved for this portable oxygen tank. This timing could not be better because we are traveling to Seattle in a few weeks to visit my sister and her kids. This would be my first time traveling with my mom in over twenty years. I hate feeling limited with my mom and while I’m nervous about her flying, I am so excited to travel with her. She’s afraid of heights, so I know she’s going to squeeze my hand during take off and I’m gonna make her laugh to keep her mind off of it. I’ve gone over this in my head a dozen time already.
I reiterate everything with the pulmonologist: portable tank will be approved? Yes. Her breathing and lungs seems to be doing better? Yes. She still cannot smoke? Yes. The last one was for my mom. She doesn’t like rules, but when a doctor tells you one more cigarette could kill you or smoking near that large oxygen tank could blow up the city block, I want to make sure it’s reminded and unwavering in clarity.
I am still annoyed! Why did this appointment take so long to make, Mom? She could have been living more comfortably months ago! I am irked, but we already agreed to do some quick shopping after this and grab lunch, and I’m a woman of my word. She also doesn’t drive so she needs this, and I’m a shit not a dick.
Shopping was quick—I’m pretty sure she knew I was in a mood. We grabbed some Smashburger and I was awful company. This so seldom happened, but today was one of those times. I can think of so many meals that were warm, timeless, funny, and meaningful, but when I think of meals this one is always the first one to come to mind. It just wasn’t good.
When I dropped her off at her home, I helped her bring things up. It was Mother’s day weekend, and I said I may stop by tomorrow to bring her with us to the Hudson Valley — we were going to my wife’s mom’s place Saturday and spending Sunday with my mom. That was the plan. I was so short with her. I was so quick. I was cold. Whatever— I was supposed to see her Sunday.
My wife didn’t think it was a good idea to bring my mom. Over my mood now that I’m home, I am back to wanting to bring her everywhere, but my wife wanted time with just her mom. That seemed fair at the time.
I woke up to texts from my brother who lived with her that she went into cardiac arrest late last night and was unresponsive. I had to read them a few times. He just texted, and never called so my phone never went off. I don’t know what exactly happened next, but we didn’t drive up to the Hudson Valley that day. We drove to Jamaica Hospital. To their patient waiting area, where my mom lay periodically convulsing between a wall and a sheet until a room in their critical care unit was ready. I guess we were waiting for someone else to live or die.
I savored so much time with my mom. I spent more time with my mom in my twenties than most of my friends. People my age were going out on the weekends, I was playing cards with my mom and going out for Hibachi and Carvel. Even with all of that time, it seems impossible to forgive myself for rushing through fucking Smashburger on some bullshit Friday in stupid-ass May. #AnOdeToMoms #PreciousMoments #SomebodysFuckingMother #TrueLove #MissingYou #SavorIt #FoodInclusivity