My mother wasn’t from the cooks. Her measuring cups were chipped, her pots dented, her pans blackened and bruised. She used the bottom of her shirt as a potholder. When she burned or cut herself, she’d give a yelp, but never put on a band-aid. She was always in a hurry.
While my mother cooked, I spun on a rusty stool, my legs kicking the kitchen counter, and watched The Mike Douglas Show on our black-and-white TV. Sammy Davis Jr. danced to “Mr. Bojangles.” My mother fried the meat patties until they looked like a charred shipwreck, then plopped them on a paper plate where canned peas and carrots swam. I had to eat fast, before my dinner sprang a leak.
