I collect sentences. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.
***
"She always made spaghetti when she had to cook in the middle of the night."
———Barbara Robinette Moss
——--Change Me into Zeus’s Daughter
Mother, a second wave feminist, didn’t teach me how to cook.
When I came home after being married a year or so (I married him because she had disapproved), she asked me to help with dinner. I reached for what turned out to be the wrong pan. I clutched the pot to my chest and prayed the stove would tell me the next step. The stove did not.
Neither did she.
She slapped hamburger into a skillet. As I backed out of her way, she glared at me. “You can’t even make spaghetti? How do you feed your husband?”
I withered.
After she died, I divorced and remarried. (Dead, her opinion carried less weight.)
The other night Ben said, “Honey you don’t have to cook anything for dinner, I’m just going to forage.”
I hated cooking, but I was pissed. Forage? Hell no. Not on my watch. Of course, I had to cook dinner.
I put my hands on my hips. “You’re not doing me any favors, you know.” I pooched my lips. “I still have to make dinner for myself. It’s just as much effort to cook for one as for both of us.”
What was his problem?
Didn’t he hear Dead Mother slap hamburger into the skillet? “You can’t even make spaghetti? How do you feed your husband?”
***
"She always made spaghetti when she had to cook in the middle of the night."
———Barbara Robinette Moss
——--Change Me into Zeus’s Daughter
Mother, a second wave feminist, didn’t teach me how to cook.
When I came home after being married a year or so (I married him because she had disapproved), she asked me to help with dinner. I reached for what turned out to be the wrong pan. I clutched the pot to my chest and prayed the stove would tell me the next step. The stove did not.
Neither did she.
She slapped hamburger into a skillet. As I backed out of her way, she glared at me. “You can’t even make spaghetti? How do you feed your husband?”
I withered.
After she died, I divorced and remarried. (Dead, her opinion carried less weight.)
The other night Ben said, “Honey you don’t have to cook anything for dinner, I’m just going to forage.”
I hated cooking, but I was pissed. Forage? Hell no. Not on my watch. Of course, I had to cook dinner.
I put my hands on my hips. “You’re not doing me any favors, you know.” I pooched my lips. “I still have to make dinner for myself. It’s just as much effort to cook for one as for both of us.”
What was his problem?
Didn’t he hear Dead Mother slap hamburger into the skillet? “You can’t even make spaghetti? How do you feed your husband?”
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