My Dearest Mother,
Please forgive me for saying this, but you are not what I would describe as the best cook I've ever met. That is to say, you are not the most creative, the most impressive, the most outstanding. Oh, mama, I am sorry to offend but I hate your lasagna and your cherished tuna buns. In fact, I despise that fishy casserole "Surprise" you created so much so that I simply am uninterested in so much as a mystery flavored lolly.
I've seen dogs lick your dishes and eaten food off the floor and a restaurant as such would never see my return. But your kitchen counter, your cookie jar, your tupperware and your table are places I romanticize. I dream of Mama's Minestrone and PB&J, of white cookies and orange yogurt. Your treats are more to my taste than the ones I make myself! Years of expense on "the best" formal culinary training and I still make crap Blueberry Muffins. How could that be, Mama? They're "just another recipe" from one of those ragged old American classic cookbooks in your cupboard. Oh, I try, I really do! I follow every step, measure ev-er-y sing-le ingredient and still, they're remarkably ordinary. Mom, I don't know how you do it, I give them tender care but they're not the right shape or the right color or quite the perfect texture they should be. Then again, they dont come with handwritten love notes on napkins and a lucky penny. They're not as "heavenly brown" in such a perfect way (I'm not sure how you do that) and, okay, they're a little light on butter ( I've most certainly got some of that guilt you talk about). They're always "alright", and I suppose they'll tide me over until next I am home but I don't love them when they're made without your love.
My dearest mother, you are my favorite cook and the most influential culinary figure in my life. You are who I strive to feed best, who I hope to wow most and the creator of my palette; my most favorite perspective from which to experience the world.
I love you for that and a million other reasons,
Alexandra
