Love Doesn’t Need a Measuring Spoon

Mom measured most ingredients very carefully, using the flat edge of a knife to level off spices, flour, and leavening agents. After more than 50 years of use, my mother's measuring spoons are bent, discolored, and disconnected from each other. I still use them, however, and I treasure the connection with her.
Mom measured most ingredients very carefully, using the flat edge of a knife to level off spices, flour, and leavening agents. After more than 50 years of use, my mother’s measuring spoons are bent, discolored, and disconnected from each other. I still use them, however, and I treasure the connection with her.

For Mother’s Day, my daughter Elizabeth made a decadent chocolate pudding pie with a cookie crust. The recipe called for a teaspoon of vanilla. When the time came, did Elizabeth reach for the bottle of vanilla and a teaspoon? Nope. She just poured in what she thought was the right amount.

“Oh my,” I said to her. “Granny is probably turning over in her grave.”

My mother, Helen, usually measured ingredients carefully. She taught me to level off a cup of flour with the straight edge of a knife. She showed me how to pack a half cup of brown sugar so that it fell out of a measuring cup in a lump. For more than 50 years, she used her silver measuring spoons so frequently that they are now bent, discolored, and disconnected from each other.

Of course, Mom never needed to measure her most important ingredient. Neither do I, and neither does Elizabeth. I’m talking about love. The more, the better.

I sometimes prepare food haphazardly for my family, but I don't remember Mom ever doing that. She even cut sandwiches carefully, from corner to corner.  Mom's magnet now hangs on my refrigerator. Years ago, we sometimes joked about her secret ingredient, but I really do think that love helped her turn ordinary meals like tuna loaf into a special family meal. (She also owned a spice canister with a similar message. My sister and I think it's squirreled away in a storage box, awaiting excavation.)
I sometimes prepare food haphazardly for my family, but I don’t remember Mom ever doing that. She even cut sandwiches carefully, from corner to corner.
Mom’s magnet now hangs on my refrigerator. Years ago, we sometimes joked about her secret ingredient, but I really do think that love helped her turn ordinary meals like tuna loaf into a special family meal. (She also owned a spice canister with a similar message. My sister and I think it’s squirreled away in a storage box, awaiting excavation.)

Mom’s special ingredient made tasty meals even tastier. I especially liked her chicken paprika, a Hungarian dish also known as chicken paprikash. Just thinking about the pasta shells and tender chicken smothered in a paprika-flavored cream sauce makes my taste buds tingle. I have made it for my own family, and although it’s good, it doesn’t measure up to what my mother made.

When my parents moved to Jefferson City in 2007, I tried to make holidays special. A picnic on Labor Day with homemade potato salad and other fixings. Pork roast on New Year’s Day. A cake shaped like a Christmas tree for the holiday season.

My most poignant memory focuses on Mother’s Day 2009. That year, Mom was hospitalized a few days before Mother’s Day because of her heart condition. What kind of celebration could we have? She was in intensive care at St. Mary’s Hospital in Jefferson City.

Fortunately, on Mother’s Day, the ICU staff gave families more leeway with respect to the number of people in a room and the ages of children allowed. ICU rooms are bigger than typical hospital rooms, but even so, Mom’s room bulged with ten visitors, medical equipment, and everything we needed for our Mother’s Day luncheon.

I made one of my go-to meals: beef stroganoff in a slow cooker as well as a fresh loaf of bread in my breadmaker. My visiting siblings brought side dishes and desserts.

“We were a beehive of activity within the ICU,” my sister, Elaine, wrote when I asked for her memories of the day. “Having a party where you’d think there would be little to celebrate — and yet there was. We were laughing and carrying on, and Mom lay there like a queen, surrounded by life and love, at the center of life and love for all of us.”

I wish I remember more particulars about the day. The beef stroganoff turned out well, but I realize now that what we ate didn’t matter. We were just happy to have the ability to celebrate Mother’s Day with Mom, a.k.a. Granny.

My sister reminded me that Elizabeth floored us by how well she read a greeting card to Granny. At the time, she was only in first grade. She read slowly, loudly and clearly, like the best of church lectors. I don’t think she stumbled once.

We spent Mother's Day 2009 with my mother in the intensive care unit at St. Mary's Hospital. We used this tray table in her room to hold her cards and a flower arrangement my sister and I created using silk flowers. Mom and I had taken a flower-arranging class years before and enjoyed it very much. (Note the handle of my father's cane to the right of the tray table. At that time, my father used his cane in a cavalier manner, often placing it where it would do him no good. He lost it several times, so eventually we put our names and my phone number on it.)
We spent Mother’s Day 2009 with my mother in the intensive care unit at St. Mary’s Hospital. We used this tray table in her room to hold her cards and a flower arrangement my sister and I created using silk flowers. Mom and I had taken a flower-arranging class years before and enjoyed it very much. (Note the handle of my father’s cane to the right of the tray table. At that time, my father used his cane in a cavalier manner, often placing it where it would do him no good. He lost it several times, so eventually we put our names and my phone number on it.)

As Elizabeth read, the room grew quiet. We were spellbound. Granny looked occasionally at the card, but she focused on Elizabeth, her youngest grandchild. The moment seared itself into my memory bank. My mother and my little girl. Life doesn’t get any better than that.


	

Daughter Appreciates Mother’s Sympathy after Miscarriage

My parents drove from Pittsburgh to Jefferson City in April 1995 to join us for Suzette's Christening. They managed to join us when we had our other two children baptized as well. I know they would have liked to have had another grandchild.
My parents drove from Pittsburgh to Jefferson City in April 1995 to join us for Suzette’s Christening. They managed to join us when we had our other two children baptized as well. I know they would have liked to have had another grandchild.

By Lisa Yorkgitis Nahach

Reach me at LisaYorkgitisNahach@gmail.com

My mother, Helen Yorkgitis, suffered from arthritis, diabetes, congestive heart failure, and other conditions. Despite her afflictions, however, she often exhibited an incredible capacity for sympathy.

One day in early 2009, I felt so overwhelmed by a recent sorrow that I had to share it with her. She was my mother, and I needed her. At her hospital bedside, I told her that I had had a miscarriage.

“Oh, Lisa,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”

I cried then, and I am crying as I write this post. Up until that point, whenever I had told someone I suffered a miscarriage, he or she had brushed it off as if it mattered little. After all, I already had three healthy and beautiful children. Weren’t they enough?!

In spite of my mother’s illness, she showed more compassion than anyone else had, and I will be eternally grateful to her. She expressed her sorrow but did not mention my living children. She knew I was mourning another child — someone I already loved but never had the chance to meet. I didn’t want to hear about Suzie,Tim, or Liz even though I loved them as much as any mother loves her children.

Helen had not known about my pregnancy because I lost the baby very early. At my first doctor’s appointment in early December 2008, my obstetrician could not hear the baby’s heartbeat, and an ultrasound revealed that the baby’s growth did not correspond with the weeks of gestation. My baby, apparently, had died in the womb. I could have had the fetus removed surgically, but I decided to wait until I naturally miscarried. After all, I reasoned, maybe my doctor made a mistake. Maybe, my baby was still alive.

I felt the first cramps indicating the beginning of my miscarriage while walking to visit my mother. The cramps hurt so much that I had to grab onto a cement wall for support. The pain passed, and I saw Mom. At that time, I could not handle talking about what was going on, so I didn’t tell her then.

I miscarried a few days later while I was home alone. My husband had taken the kids shopping to use the gift cards they had received for Christmas. The date: Dec. 28, 2008.

My mother’s empathy stemmed, in part, from the miscarriage she experienced in the mid-1950s, but I like to think she would have been sympathetic even if she had not had a miscarriage, too.

At the time of her miscarriage, she and my father were living in a walk-up apartment in the Pittsburgh area with my oldest sibling, Susan. Like my miscarriage, Mom’s miscarriage happened within the first trimester. She wondered if all of the steps she climbed carrying baby Susan, laundry, and/or groceries hindered her pregnancy. She never found out, of course, just like I never found out what lead to my miscarriage.

As I write this, I am cooking a ham to accompany the turkey my sister-in-law is preparing for Thanksgiving Day dinner. I studded the ham with whole cloves, just like my mother taught me. My daughter Suzie is creating a glaze of orange juice, brown sugar, and mustard, just like my mother used to make.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I miss you. Thank you for the many ways you showed your love.