I’ve always been a daughter on Mother’s Day. Even after my sister and I had our own kids, Mother’s Day meant visiting Mom at our childhood home with its untouched 1980s kitchen, bearing flowers and platters of bagels and lox. I would pick up the Russ & Daughters order, my sister would arrange the peonies and tulips and my mother would dote on her grandkids and their brightly crayoned cards, lavishly spangled with rainbows and hearts.
My mother died last summer. Of all the agonizing events — birthdays, Seder, selling the house with that 1980s kitchen without even being able to ask for her advice — this holiday feels the most unmoored. For the first time in my life, Mother’s Day will be all about me.
The grieving part of me wants to ignore the whole thing and pretend it’s just another Sunday. But I know that won’t do. We skipped Thanksgiving the year my father died because it was his favorite holiday. Not only did that fail to soften the sting, we also didn’t get any pie — a double loss my food-obsessed dad would not have approved of. Hunger is not how our family mourns.
As for tomorrow, restaging the bagels and lox ritual in my own 2010s-era kitchen seems too sad and too soon. I’d feel my mother’s spirit hovering, reminding me to build her bagel just so, with butter, whitefish salad and sable on one half, cream cheese, whitefish salad and lox on the other, and capers, red onions and tomatoes covering it all. I’m not quite ready for a haunted schmear.
But I also don’t want a restaurant brunch, lining up for overdecorated waffles and under-brewed tea, and breakfast in bed is too messy and confining for me. To be honest, I actually prefer not to have anyone make me breakfast or brunch at all. Cooking and sharing a meal with family is one of my favorite ways of mothering. Why would I pass that up on the most motherly day of the year?
So instead, I’ve asked my daughter and husband to honor my motherhood by washing the windows so I can keep better tabs on my herbs on the deck (good morning, chive blossoms!). While they have at it with vinegar-soaked newspaper, I’ll happily dive into feeding us all. I have a new recipe for lemon soufflé French toast that I’m excited to make again, and I can tell you that rubbing citrus zest and sugar between my fingers will be better aromatherapy than any scented candle. While the oven is on I’ll throw in a pan of bacon to further perfume the house, and maybe even whip up a batch of Kenji López-Alt’s extra-creamy scrambled eggs.
