I talked to my Mummy yesterday!
You’re looking at me funny.
No, you don’t understand. My family don’t talk. We are not talkers. We don’t “keep in touch”. We are adrift in a sea of memory misery.
I’m always floored by you folks who say that you talk to your moms every day or every week or every month or every fiscal quarter. I think it’s great! If I manage to adopt a child someday, I sure hope she calls me, too. I would of course call her, or at least text her to see how her smoodgie face is doing. But this has not been my world. There are several reasons for this, some of them are of course my fault, unless you believe that your parents shape your behaviour, and then I am absolved of responsibility. Muahahaha!
But the point is (there’s ever a point?) I am ECSTATIC I talked to my Mummy, & we made plane reservations and for the first time since I was in college, I am spending Thanksgiving and Christmas with her, my sister, & my brother. YAYZ times four gazillion million!
My father apparently asked why my mother did not request his presence (which is rich because the man can tell you the date of every battle in every war in the history of human civilisation, but he cannot remember birthdays or holidays). My mother stood up for me. STOOD UP FOR ME. She told him, “I want to see my daughter for once.” And he said, “Is she still cross with me?” Really?
And my mother (my mother!) said to him, “Cross with you? She never wants to see you again for as long as you live. How much more clear should she have been?” He said, “Oh.” (Well DUH.) He then said, “If she was in some sort of trouble, you would tell me right?” (RICH.)
My mother (MY MOTHER!) said, “No, I would not. But rest assured she is doing better now than she has ever done in her life, and don’t you dare jeopardize that by contacting her again.”
MY. EFFING. MOTHER.
This is kind of huge. This is kind of wonderful huge for me. This is kind of safe and loving and epic. If I didn’t have a migraine, I would feel exceptionally faery light right now & possibly dance on my tippy toes. I feel like somebody’s daughter and I can’t wait to see her and hug her. Also I might cry. Good cry.
But here’s the funny part:
So we talk briefly about the food bit of Thanksgiving, since I am now an unholy nightmare of food limitations & an incorrigible pain in the arse to everyone who wishes to feed me. She asks if she has to do anything different and I say not really, most of her dinner is from scratch. The roast potatoes don’t need to be modified, and neither does the turkey…
“Oh, unless you use one that has fluids & stuff in it.”
“Oh,” my Mum says. “Well, sometimes I inject it with stuff.”
“Oh,” I say, “Well, just let me know what the ingredients are. If there’s any MSG, I can’t have it. Also some thickeners & flavourings have gluten in them, especially gravy mixes. But I can make a gravy from scratch for you if you like. I don’t want to be a pain in the arse.”
“Ok, we’ll talk about that before you come down.”
“And of course I can’t have anything that’s been remotely near a crumb of stuffing.”
“Oh, you don’t like stuffing any more?”
I blinked. “Um, well, I can’t have stuffing. Bread.”
My mother gasped. “YOU CAN’T HAVE BREAD?!!!”
“Mum, I have celiac disease.”
“Is gluten in bread?”
“Mum, gluten is a protein in wheat. So yes, it’s in bread, Yorkshire pud, gravy, crusts, some drinks even. It’s effing everything.”
“Well fook me, no wonder you’re losing weight!”
“Oh, and I can’t have dairy.”
“No clotted creme for you then, mate.”
“NO NO I can have creme. Well, a little. I can’t have milk, yogurt, ice cream. No lactose. No milk sugar. It’s like Atkins. The more cooked it is, the better. So like I can have cheese a bit.”
“Oh that’s good.”
“Oh and I can’t have peanuts.”
I am laughing while typing this. It’s so NOT ENGLISH to have things wrong with your belly. Stiff upper lip and all that. But I explained that if I have a hint of a portion of a crumb of gluten, I will have dysentry (as Rick describes it). Also I will be bloated for a couple of weeks & my weight loss will be stalled at least a month as my system fixes itself again. So I think she realizes this is a big deal.
But it’s ok, because I can help cook. I can make lovely things. My Mum said she wishes I was coming earlier so I could shop at Trader Joes with, and I told her about the Trader Joes gluten free list. Now I think things are happier.
I also discovered my Mum does not like goat cheese. Caroline does. We must get it from my father, which makes sense because the Mongolian/goat cheese loving blood (type B) comes through the Slavic bloodline. This is per my doctor & Google.
I’m up to a bunch of wacky writing/thinking/publishing type nonsense, but more about that at another time.
Also I wish Posterous would let you post a SMALLER header photo. Lame.
Oh, by the way, NOTHING should be named “tunnel of fudge.”
*today’s blog title brought to you by “Left of Mother” by Curve, off the album ‘Cuckoo’