What Ever Happened To My Mother's Daughter?...

My oven is in pieces in the middle of the kitchen.  It’s been on a slow decline for some time and the part that will hopefully return it to health should be arriving any day now and I’ll be cookin’ with gas once again!  Meanwhile, however, I’ve been handicapped with an inability to make a simple meal for my family for an entire week.

Fortunately, I live in the heart of civilization, with grocery store delis, pizza joints and fast food around every turn.  We’re not starving, but I can’t help but wonder what the heck happened to my mother’s daughter?

My mom took us camping at every opportunity.  I watched her produce wonderful meals using campfire and aluminum foil.  Camp stoves provided cinnamon rolls for breakfast.  When hiking, she would point out plants that, if necessity warranted, could be eaten.  She taught us not only to survive but to thrive!

Over the years, she was met with challenges that made daily routines difficult, but she prevailed.  When we lived in a vacant motel, with no kitchen and very basic plumbing, we still ate well.  Electric popcorn poppers, coffee makers, toaster ovens and the old trusty camp stove kept us fed.  Dishes were washed in the bathtub, coolers of ice stored our food.  And we thrived. 

Storms and power outages bring those long-ago skills out of storage and she continues to conquer the obstacles.  I should be able to do it, too!  Shouldn’t I?

The fact is, I can.  Sometimes.  I can engineer my way around some obstacles.  I could cook outside on the gas grill.  I have a crockpot and a rice cooker and, like every good American family, a microwave but I’ve become too soft.  Too pampered.  It’s just too easy to look outside for someone else (a restaurant or pre-made meal) to solve my problems.

I know what I CAN do.  I just don’t want to.  And in that realization, I have to look around and wonder what the heck happened to my mother’s daughter?

My mother’s daughter should go to work, come home and make dinner, make it to everything that matters, repair clothes, bake something wonderful, impart some wisdom, and heal wounds.  I go to work, come home with takeout more often than not, make it to everything that matters, replace clothes, buy cookies, tell stale stories and hope the Barbie bandaids will cut it.

Maybe one day my kids will tell people about how their mom could save the day every time.  But I guess I better start shopping for a campstove, an electric griddle and some bigger bandaids if that’s ever going to happen.