Bon Appetempt: A Coming-of-Age Story (with Recipes!) (29 page)

In mid-August, Matt and I are at our second-trimester screening, where they do an ultrasound and take a close look at the
baby to try to see if everything’s progressing normally. This is where they will officially tell us the sex. At our last ultrasound, the doctor had told us she was a girl, but then he had followed that up by saying he was only about seventy percent sure.

As it turns out, he was seventy percent wrong. The technician tells us it’s definitely a boy and shows us the evidence to prove it. We’re both surprised. But what surprises me most is the sense of relief I feel.

In the ten weeks between ultrasound appointments, Matt and I had traveled to North Carolina to join in on my family’s beach vacation. And it’s only now, as I lay on my back with the technician showing me all of the various parts to our baby
boy
that I realize how closely I’d been tracking my relationship with my mom—both how hard I am on her as well as the ways in which I want to parent differently.

On our first day there, my pediatrician mother’s back and shoulders are already extremely tan. But by midweek, she is reddish-brown, the color of a crisp piece of bacon. If she isn’t at the beach, she has found herself a sunny spot on one of the house’s decks. “You know, I’m going to take a photo of you and send it to your dermatologist,” I threaten at one point.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m wearing fifteen!” she says, referring to her sunscreen’s SPF.

If she’s inside, she’s never without a can of Diet Coke, her latest needlepoint project or crossword puzzle, and a blaring television. And I can’t help but think how ironic it is how much time she spends talking about and arranging these familial gatherings and then how little of her seems present once we’re all there.

And without even realizing it, I have begun to fear something more specific than motherhood. I’ve begun to fear
having a daughter just like myself—a daughter so quick to criticize and slow to hug, a daughter who might someday point out my own bad habits, which come to think of are fairly similar to my mother’s. At home, Matt and I eat the majority of our meals while watching television, and when we’re done eating, with the TV still on, I turn to my phone and play digital Scrabble for the rest of the night, or if it’s my turn to clean up, I turn on a podcast—basically avoiding single-tasking at all costs.

But now that I know it’s a boy, I immediately feel less pressure. Because certainly (or so I’ve convinced myself) our little boy will take after Matt—openhearted, loving, optimistic, and quick to hug.

When Matt comes home from work, I scoop out the pinto beans into two wide, shallow bowls. I top them with the glistening cherry tomatoes, a couple spoonfuls of sour cream, a drizzle of hot sauce, and a bit of chopped cilantro. Along the side of the bowl, I tuck in a pair of folded tortillas. I bring them upstairs, where we eat at the coffee table while watching The US Open. Tonight, it’s the young American, Isner, versus the wily Frenchman, Monfils. It’s an exciting match. After winning the first two sets, Isner drops the third to Monfils. Though at the moment, the excitement is stemming from the crowd itself. Despite the New York City location, the mostly American crowd has been won over by Monfils’s exuberant personality and has begun to chant, “Monfils! Monfils!”

And in a fairly unorthodox move, Isner has opted to take a very long bathroom break. While we wait for him to return, the commentators talk about the crowd. They say they’ve
never seen anything like it. One of them reports that he saw Isner on his way to the locker room and that he looked
extremely rattled
.

“Poor Isner,” I say. “To be cheered against in your own country.”

Matt shrugs. “Eh, they just want a good game.”

“Yeah, but it’s the
US
Open. It’s rude!”

I look over at him and notice that he’s stopped short of finishing his first bowl of beans, which is rare for someone who almost always has seconds.

“You didn’t like it?” I ask.

“Eh,” he says, shrugging. “It’s
a lot
of beans.”

I know it’s a lot of beans. It’s a lot of
delicious
beans!
I want to say, but Matt’s attention is back on the television. Isner has returned from his epic bathroom break and Matt has joined the crowd in chanting, “Monfils! Monfils!”

“Oh, c’mon. It’s the
US
Open! How would you feel if you were Isner?”

But Matt just looks at me with a wide grin and continues to cheer, “Monfils! Monfils!”

By October, I’m six months into my pregnancy. The baby has received good reports at every doctor’s appointment, and talking with my dad about it is no longer reassuring. For one, he’s old school and doesn’t believe in ultrasounds. He doesn’t think I should get a flu shot. He doesn’t think I should get a Tdap vaccine. He basically doesn’t think I should be doing much of anything that’s standard practice nowadays. He’s also mentioned three times how he’s going to take a train out to LA in early January to meet the baby. I don’t give the idea too
much thought until this third mention, when I realize he’s being serious. “Would you stay with us?” I ask him, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, sure,” he says.

“OK.” I try not to sound panicked, but at the same time, I can’t imagine what that would even look like. Would he come clean with his smoking or would he continue to sneak cigarettes behind my back multiple times a day? Speaking of which, what would he do
all day
? Does he have a laptop? Or would he take over one of our computers in order to keep up with all of his online chess games? What would he even
eat
?

“You’d have to come after Mom leaves is all. I think she’s planning on staying a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, Becky gets first rights?”

“Well, yeah.”

Those who have shared a kitchen with me are well aware that I like everything done in a certain way. Before beginning any recipe, the sink must be free and clear of dirty dishes; I wash up in between steps, never touch a cabinet knob with buttery fingers or, worse, raw-chicken fingers—something my mom did on a recent visit and got scolded for. Ideally, I clean as I go so that when whatever I am making is ready to eat, so too is the kitchen (for another round of
spotless cooking
with your host, Amelia!).

Similarly, though this book isn’t due until December 1st, with the baby due January 7th, I set a deadline to turn it in a month early, at the beginning of November. That way, perhaps (just perhaps!), I can fit in the edits before the baby comes.

This means that when my ninety-four-year-old grandma
(my mom’s mom) comes to visit for a few days at the end of October, I’m not only seven months pregnant, but I’m in the home stretch of writing my first draft.

In the past year, Grandma has slowed down a lot. She now needs a cane to walk and supplemental oxygen to breathe. She’s also recently moved to Taos, New Mexico, to live with my aunt and uncle, which is the reason she’s able to visit me now. Aunt Martha and Uncle Bob have a conference in San Diego to attend, and they decide to drive her to LA and drop her off with Matt and me while they continue on.

And though I’m initially concerned about taking care of the trifecta that will be Grandma, the baby, and myself, I realize it’s a rare opportunity and must take it. What I forget is that my aunt and uncle play things a bit faster and looser than my immediate family does. They’re supposed to arrive on a Wednesday around dinnertime, but at seven p.m., I get a message that they’re running late. When they finally arrive, it’s almost midnight. After everyone hugs everyone and we get Grandma inside, Uncle Bob explains they can’t chat long. They need to make it to Venice, where they’re staying the night with Martha’s sister so they can get an early start tomorrow; but first we need to “quickly go over Grandma’s equipment.”

For the next ten minutes, Matt and I receive a crash course on how to operate and troubleshoot oxygen machines, both Grandma’s portable and stationary ones, the latter of which is the size of an oven, though it’s thankfully on wheels. Once Uncle Bob has explained everything to us, he says, “OK, great. We’ll see you all next week!”

“Sunday night?” I say. Their original e-mail inquiring about the visit had simply specified
a few days
, and I assumed the conference would end on a Sunday.

“No, not until Wednesday,” he says.

“Oh.”

Ultimately, however, everything works out just fine. Grandma is surprisingly self-sufficient. She knows how to hook herself up to the stationary oxygen machine, which she uses to sleep at night, and she basically ignores the portable one during the day. In the morning, I make her toast with butter and jam. Matt goes to work. And I write for a few hours while Grandma reads and rereads the past six issues of
Martha Stewart Living
. Thanksgiving is just four weeks away, and she takes a particular interest in planning her side dishes for the upcoming holiday.

In the afternoon, she comes to the park and sits on the bench while Mavis and I walk. When I have to run to the grocery store, she’s happy to push the cart. And when I need to recipe test a batch of lemon and fennel shortbread cookies, she’s the one grinding the fennel seeds with a mortar and pestle. One afternoon, I take her to the Griffith Park Observatory, where she poses (with Mavis) for a few photos with the Hollywood sign in the background.

Bob and Martha have cut sugar and carbs out of their diets, and much to Grandma’s chagrin, they’ve tried to do the same with her. But enacting the age-old “our house, our rules” clause, we indulge her (and ourselves). We make pizzas and pastas all week long and finish each meal with scoops of ice cream for everyone. On her last night with us, Matt makes her a full-blown sundae with chocolate sauce and a cherry on top. I have a photo of her with it; she’s smiling so wide you can tell she’s laughing.

Bob and Martha pick her up a day early, on Tuesday.

I turn in my book six days later, the following Monday.
That same day, my mom arrives in Taos on a visit she’s planned for months.

On Thursday, Mom calls to tell me that she’s a little worried. Grandma took a fall, and though she didn’t break anything, she doesn’t even want to get out of bed today.

On Friday, when I check in, Mom tells me how she keeps clutching at her heart and saying her chest hurts. But still, she doesn’t want to go to the hospital.

On Saturday, Mom calls to tell me that they’ve set up hospice care for her and that the nurse doesn’t think she’ll last the week. Mom puts the phone up to Grandma’s ear and lets me talk to her for a bit. Grandma doesn’t say anything back, but I can hear her laugh when I tell her how Mavis peed out of excitement all over my shoes that afternoon.

On Sunday, she’s too tired to talk.

With both of her children by her side, she dies early Monday morning.