Two Mothers and Cornbread

This is the story of two very different ladies and one very special dish.

In my lifetime I was blessed with not one, but two mothers. 

Long story, but my mother was schizophrenic and very unstable in an era when mental illness was swept under the rug and very strong, experimental drugs were quietly dispensed by the family doctor. 

It was not unusual for me to ride down the center our little town on my bike with the daisy seat and metal basket and pick up a prescription of thorazine, a True Crime magazine and a pack of Benson and Hedges. (It was the 70's). 

Toward the end of her life the disease had worsened and my sweet Mother had become manic and elusive more days than not. That's the dark sad side of her story. 

The light and happy side is, she was a brilliant writer, photographer, seamstress, artist, singer and when times were balanced, an awesome Mom. She was beautiful and funny and loyal to her family and those are the traits and the times I choose to remember. 

Because of her mental state, she was very dependent. Dependent on my Dad, on the drugs that kept her functioning, on her own parents. 

My mother didn't work outside the house. She was of the era that the wife stayed home and the man was the breadwinner and she was very much a part of that structure. She suffered horribly from insomnia, maybe from the meds, maybe from my Dad working the night shift, maybe from the demons that tortured her relentlessly.

She was always creating, always singing, always working in the garden and canning vegetables and sewing wedding dresses and writing poetry. Her talents were big and looking back, I wish they had been shared more often.

I saw strength in my Dad, who spent 18 years navigating the obstacles of dealing with a loved one with a mental illness. And also strength in my grandmother, who prayed for her oldest daughter to recover from her condition. 

When you have a loved one who suffers so, you tend to file away the good days to draw strength from. The day before my mother's accident was such a day. She was really good. She had smiles and hugs and made a huge dinner, complete with my favorites, beans and cornbread. We talked and laughed until later that night when there was a trigger that sent her off the deep end. I am not sure what it was exactly, but it was a bad episode, she was quite delusional and I was tired of playing the part of the nurse. 

I said some things that were less than nice (last words to my mom) and it took me quite a while to work through that guilt. Through the years and with God's grace I have dealt with those issues. Forgiven myself, forgiven her, forgiven the medical world that so failed her during those years. 

But on that last day she left a pan of cornbread on the stove. Right after her death, before everyone descended upon my house I wrapped up the cornbread and put it in the freezer. I kept that cornbread for 3 years. Not sure why, maybe just part of my process.

I have learned not to question your processes or timelines for healing. 

SO, the last meal my Mama made for me was cornbread. 

If you are from the south or part of any culture, you know that there are certain foods and dishes that are significant. Well, cornbread is one of those dishes that is part of southern heritage. To know how to make good cornbread is imperative. To make it for those around you is an act of love. A culinary song that goes best with real butter and sweet tea and if you are lucky, a slice of vidalia onion. It's a treasure. Having it as a "last dish" was a somewhat weird comfort, but somehow it helped.

Fast foward forty one years. 

In the years following the death of my mother, my Dad met and married Hilda. There could not be two women more opposite. 

Hilda was a union coordinator and tough as nails, outspoken, opinionated and fierce. 

I came to greatly appreciate those qualities, but at first it was a learning curve. It was so different than I what I was used to. 

Through the years Hilda was a driving force in my life. 

She was there when I got my drivers's license (I took my drivers test in her company car), my graduation, weddings, births of my children and their children, every holiday, baby shower, bridal shower, illness and celebration, Hilda was right in the center making sure it was special. 

While I had to learn how to process the frankness and quite brutal honesty she possessed, I came to appreciate it and even learn from it and eventually lovingly tease her about it.

She was loyal to a fault to her family and friends. What you saw is what you got-there was no pretense. She was fair, determined and expected the same from those around her. 

Having a husband with those same traits, I spoke her love language well. She loved strongly and with great intention. 

As time progressed and Hilda got older, she had some vision problems and some few minor health issues, but the care and love I saw between her and my Dad during those years was inspiring. 

They traveled around the country, spent time with family and friends and lived wonderful, full moments.

A couple of years ago we bought a farm and Dad and Hilda came for dinner, along with my stepsister. We had a good time laughing, telling and retelling old stories and having a most warm and memorable afternoon. Hilda brought her famous dish for that dinner...cornbread. It was absolutely heavenly fried cornbread with just the right amount of crust. I smiled through the whole meal. It was a special time and I will always treasure it.

Later that evening Hilda suffered a stroke and never recovered. 

Her last dish to make for me was cornbread. Once again, I wrapped it up and put it in the freezer. It's still there today.

Now if you have stayed with me this far during this story you get what I am saying. That I was blessed with two (very different) mothers in my lifetime. That both would leave me with the same dish. Cornbread. 

A while back I was featured in the local newspaper holding my very old, very heavy iron skillet and shared the recipe that I am also known for. Cornbread. 

I guess you could say it's my legacy-the sweet golden tapestry between my two, very wonderfully different mothers.