Just Like What Mom Used to Make

He recalled the delicious aroma before he even knew what he was smelling. Some dusty old memory emerged from the dark corners of his half-forgotten childhood. A meal... His mother... With old age approaching, he had already given up those experiences for lost. But, this scent… His mouth watered.

Following his nose, he turned a corner and discovered a restaurant he had never noticed before. It was located at the base of a narrow building with a pair of windows flanking the door. Venetian blinds obscured the interior. Above the door was a small sign with the word “Restaurant” painted in gold lettering. He saw no lights on, but a small sign on the door declared that they were “Open.”

He pulled open the door, ringing a bell as he did, and stepped inside. A small bar and half a dozen tables were all that fit within, but it felt spacious in there nonetheless. The carpet and walls were a somber mix of dark browns, greens, and reds, looking dingy but not dirty. The few shaded lamps seemed terribly dim and ineffective at casting much light, leaving the whole place feeling tired, as if it had been resting that way for decades, half-asleep, waiting for someone to arrive.

There was a woman slightly older than he was, sitting at a table over by the door to the kitchen. A newspaper was laid out on the table next to a half-eaten plate of pasta. She was dividing her attention between the two of them, not yet giving him any notice.

He halved the distance to her and cleared his throat. “Your sign said you were open.”

She finished her last forkful of pasta before turning to stare at him silently as she chewed.

Feeling awkward, he said, “I smelled the pasta. Could I order a plate of that, please?”

She set down her fork and stood up. Then, she walked over to the bar and fetched a menu for him and placed it down on a table. He took a seat there, and thanked her. She cleared her table and retreated to the kitchen. Through it all, she never spoke a word.

He did not bother flipping through the menu. He figured that he had already made his order. Sure enough, he heard cooking sounds coming from the kitchen a short while later.

That familiar aroma grew stronger as she worked. It was oily with a hint of garlic and something else, something he could not name. Again, his mind receded to his childhood. His mother in the kitchen, making dinner just for him, pasta.

The kitchen door opened and the woman stepped out with a plate of pasta on a tray. She moved his menu aside and set the plate down in front of him, still steaming. Then, she gave him a set of utensils bound in a napkin and filled up a glass of water for him as he unrolled the utensils. He was about to take a bite as she walked away with the menu in hand, but he called to her.

“Excuse me?” he said.

She paused and turned to look back at him.

“There’s an ingredient in this I can’t quite place.”

“Anchovies,” she stated. Then, she headed back into the kitchen.

Of course! he thought. She would buy cans of anchovies. He remembered the weird little fish lined up inside the can, bathed in oil. I would refuse to eat them, but she must have used the oil from them on the pasta.

For years after his mother had died, he had searched for recipes that matched what she cooked for him. This was before the internet, and the cook books he perused were not much help. Eventually, he gave up the search and, in time, he forgot about the pasta altogether.

Now, this meal had found him.

Feeling famished, he scooped up a forkful of pasta and shoveled it into his mouth. He made a joyful involuntary sound, like a humming moan, in response to the delicious flavor. It was rapturous. Memories flooded back to him as he chewed. He recalled the last time he had eaten this meal. It was the last meal his mother made for him before he left for college.

When he next came home, it was for her funeral.

His eyes teared up, but he kept eating. Every bite made the memories more vivid. He felt his youth returning to him with each swallow. The feeling was so strong that even some of the old aches and pains in his joints and tendons had started to fade from notice. He wiped his eyes dry with the napkin and took a drink of cool water to refresh himself. It worked. He felt like a new man.

He ate more and summoned up memories from even earlier in his life. Coming home after losing a football game in high school, he found a plate waiting for him as soon as he had finished showering. It took the edge off of the defeat, a simple comfort.

Another mouthful brought him back to his boyhood, coming home with scrapes and bruises after falling from his bicycle. His mother treated his wounds, dressed them, and then she treated his stomach to the pasta.

He looked at the plate, seeing it mostly empty, and sensed that something felt off about the table and chair all of a sudden. The chair seemed to have grown taller, so much so that his heels would not touch the ground. The table itself appeared to have risen up to the level of his lower chest.

As confused as he was by these changes, his hunger drove him to keep eating. He needed more: more food, more memories, more childhood, more of his mama. He shoveled forkfuls of pasta into his mouth, making a mess of his face as he did, not caring about table manners at all.

He remembered sitting on a stack of phone books in order to reach the table, pushing away a plate of chicken and broccoli in disgust. His mother passed her plate of pasta to him. He crossed his arms and shook his head. She told him to just try a single bite. He did. It was the first time he had eaten it, and he fell in love immediately. She smiled, not caring that she would need to make another meal for herself. She had fed him, her love filling every mouthful.

In the restaurant, he was kneeling on the chair, fork in hand, scraping up the remaining sauce on the plate, ready to lift it up and lick it dry. He paused, realizing just how large the chair and table were now compared to him. If he were sitting normally on the chair, he would not be able to reach his plate. He stood up on the chair and looked down at himself. The clothes he had been wearing had been replaced by a T-shirt and overalls. He looked at the hand that clutched the fork. The wrinkles, veins, and liver spots were gone, replaced by smooth unblemished skin.

“What happened to me?” he asked. The voice he heard was high and soft, a young child’s voice, one barely older than a baby.

He set down the fork and climbed down from the enormous chair, feeling very much at ease moving around now. He looked around the restaurant, feeling that it seemed bigger as well. He spotted a mirror behind the bar and ran over to the stools in front of it and climbed up one of them. He had to see. He had to confirm what he already knew had happened.

Once he was standing on the stool, he looked at his reflection, and found a boy looking back at him. His hair was dark again, his face round and innocent, little button nose, ears that stuck out too much. He was not even old enough for kindergarten, barely more than a toddler. He cupped his cheeks in his hands and the boy in the reflection did the same. There was no trace of stubble on his face, only soft young skin.

“I’m a boy?” he asked, feeling confused but not frightened. For the moment, his mind was focused on what he had gained, not what he had lost. Some kind of miracle or magic was at work here, and he was curious to understand it.

The sound of a woman humming a tune gently drifted out of the kitchen. He turned to look that way, finding the door still closed.

“Hello?” he called out, wincing slightly at his squeaky voice. “Did you do this to me?”

The woman kept on humming, not showing any sign that she had heard him.

He climbed down from the stool and approached the door, cautiously.

“Excuse me?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

The humming continued.

He hesitated before pushing the door open, anxious about what he might find inside. Some worried corner of his mind expected to spot a bubbling cauldron in there, with a crone in a pointy hat tossing eyes of newt into it. He thought of running, leaving the restaurant to seek help, but where would he go looking like this? He would be a lost boy out there wandering the streets. In here, at least, with the humming woman, there might be an explanation and a way back.

He pressed against the door, but it did not move. He pushed hard with both hands and leaned into it with all his weight, and at last, it budged. Summoning up all his feeble strength, he pushed on, eyes shut, grunting at the effort, as the door swung slowly. Suddenly, it yielded and swung away from his hands, he charged forward and tumbled onto the floor.

A fall like that would have sent him to the hospital, normally, but his young body was not even bruised. He rose to his feet and dusted himself off. Then, he looked around at the kitchen he was in and gasped.

He was home. This was his mother’s kitchen in the house where he had grown up. Evening sunlight shone through the windows, lighting up the table and chairs and cabinets in a gentle orange glow.

He heard the woman humming again and saw her standing at the counter, chopping vegetables on a cutting board, her back to him. It was not the old woman from the restaurant. He knew this woman.

“Mama?” he said, taking an uncertain step towards her.

She looked over her shoulder down at him and smiled and said, “Baby? You hungry?”

“Mama!” he cried and ran to her, tears filling his eyes. He wrapped his arms around her middle and hugged her close to him. “Mama!” he cried again. “I missed you so much.”

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

“You’ve been gone so long. Dead,” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked up at her.

“Oh?” she said, setting down the knife and turning to face him. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I wish it were only a dream. I wish this was real,” he said. “I never got to say ‘goodbye.’”

“It’s alright, darling,” she said, stroking the hair on his head soothingly. “I’m here. I’m with you. I’ll always be here with you.”

He clutched her as tightly as he could, as if holding on stubbornly enough meant there was no way she could leave him again. She was so large and solid, so substantial, so real. Nothing could harm him with her there, he was safe, protected.

“Come now,” she said. “I need to get back to cooking, or there’ll be no food for dinner. Wouldn’t you like a plate of pasta?”

He nodded.

“Well,” she said. “How about you help me make dinner? How does that sound?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course I’ll help. Anything to be near you.”

She slipped free from his embrace and pulled a chair from the kitchen table and stood it beside the stovetop. “You can climb up there and help me stir,” she said. “Wash your hands first.”

He nodded and walked to the sink finding a stool beneath it that he could stand on. He washed his hands, dried them, and joined her over by the stove as she began making the noodles. He climbed up on the chair and watched carefully as she worked. Now and then, she would allow him to tip something into a pan for her or hold a spoon with her as she stirred. Through it all, he asked questions, taking mental notes and memorizing every step of the process. Then, that delicious aroma arose from it, even better than what he had smelled in the restaurant.

“It’s ready,” she declared. “Go have a seat at the table. I’ll get the plates and utensils.”

Although he had eaten only a short time ago, he felt his stomach growl with hunger as he took his seat at the table. However, he found that he was too short for it.

“You forgot your phone books,” she said, setting down the plates and utensils. Then, she lifted him up from the seat and stood him on the floor. He was stunned by her strength and amazed at being carried again. She stacked a pair of phone books on the chair and sat him on top of them, giving him the elevation needed to reach his plate.

He set his napkin on his lap as she filled glasses of water for them. Then, she filled their plates with pasta. He was about to dig in, when he saw her start to pray. He set down his fork, and clasped his hands together, lowering his head.

She recited, “Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive, through thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord, Amen.”

“Amen,” he replied and made the sign of the cross with her. Although it had been years since his last prayer, he remembered the ritual well. Besides, it felt right to give thanks for this meal.

“Now,” she said. “Let’s eat.”

He smiled and scooped up a mouthful. Again, he let out an involuntary exclamation of joy as the flavor hit his tongue. “It’s so good!” he declared. “Thank you!”

Either she made it better, or his youthful tongue could taste it more strongly, but this was the best pasta he had ever eaten. He stuffed himself until he could eat no more and set down his fork in surrender.

“Looks like someone enjoyed his meal,” she said, smiling at him as she finished up as well. Afterwards, she cleared the table as he sat there, feeling drowsy with his stomach full. The sun was setting at last, and he felt his eyes beginning to droop with it.

“Come now,” she said, lifting him from the phone books, “Looks like someone is feeling ready for bed.”

Holding him to her chest, he wrapped his arms around her neck, and hung on to her shoulders as she carried him upstairs to the bathroom, where he cleaned up. Then, holding his hand, she led him to his bedroom and helped him put on his pajamas.

“I don’t wanna go to sleep,” he said and yawned. “I wanna stay with you, Mama.”

“It’s bedtime for little boys,” she said.

Noticing a bookshelf near the bed, he requested, “Read me a story… please?”

“Very well,” she said, picking up a well-worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are. He got into bed and sat up with his pillow behind him. She got in as well and sat beside him, the weight of her body causing both of them to sink into the mattress. Then, she opened the book and began to read it. He leaned against her side, feeling the warmth of her as his mind sailed away to a faraway land.

When he felt himself drifting off to sleep, he interrupted her to say, “I love you, Mama.”

“I love you, too, my darling,” she replied, kissing his head.

“Goodbye,” he said.

“Goodnight,” she replied. “Sleep well, my darling.”

She went back to reading, but he was asleep before the story was over.

***

He felt someone nudge his shoulder, waking him up. Opening his eyes, he found himself sitting at a table, laying his heavy head on it, his crossed arms acting as a pillow beneath his face. Confused at where he was, he looked beside himself to see who had nudged him. The old woman from the restaurant was standing there. She set a cheque down on the table and said, “Closing time.” Then, she walked off to flip the “Open” sign on the door to “Closed.”

He sat up, feeling his old bones creak as he moved. “Wait,” he croaked out, with his voice sounding deep and tired again. “Wait. What…?” he started to ask, but then he noticed on the table in front of him a half-empty bottle of wine with a half-full glass of red wine beside it.

His head felt a bit cloudy but not quite drunk. “Was it all a dream?” he asked himself. He turned to look for the cook to ask her what had happened, but the woman was back in the kitchen again, washing up, if he interpreted the noise in there correctly. He pulled out his wallet, taking a moment to refamiliarize himself with his aged hands as he lay out some cash to pay for his meal, making sure to include a generous tip.

Then, he stood up, walked to the door, turning back once to look at the dingy room again, before stepping out onto the sidewalk. He walked over to a nearby boulevard and called a cab to drive him home.

Before he went to sleep, he wrote out a full recipe for the pasta. Whether it had been a dream or not, he had walked away from it with a treasure he wanted to keep.

***

The next day, he went looking for the restaurant again, wanting to see if he might have a word with the woman who ran the establishment. After an exhaustive search of the neighborhood, he found no sign of the place, and no one he asked knew anything about it. Deciding that he had better just leave well enough alone, he moved on.

That night, he cooked his mother’s pasta recipe for himself. It was good, not great. He would need to practice it to do it justice, but he knew that the recipe was right at least. As he ate it, he made plans in his mind to take a trip to visit his daughter and her family. He would share the recipe with her, pass on his mother’s meal to another generation and, hopefully, to the generations that followed, keeping that little bit of her alive for years to come.