I stood in the doorway of the kitchen watching my mother cooking and preparing the Thanksgiving dinner as I drooled with excitement wanting to sneak a lick of the bowls she recently mixed the german chocolate cake and its accompanying frosting.
Although the aromas of faintly simmering pots filled with potatoes, assorted greens, and the infamous gravy sit on the stove. The crown jewel smell of the turkey in the oven was overridden with the aroma of peach cobbler and apple pies.
I see the mixing bowls sitting uncleaned in the sink beckoning me as they did when I was a child watching my mother preparing thousands of meals. However, at 41 years of age, the same voice is so hauntingly familiar beckoning me to lick the bowls and utensils.
My mother walks out of the kitchen, and I pounce like a cheetah for the icing bowl, with both my right and left middle finger to gather as much as I could in one circular swipe.
I move to cake mixing bowl utilizing the same technique I mastered thirty decades ago to avoid sharing with my younger sisters and brother.
I hear my mother’s footsteps approaching, and I move to stand in front of the stove stirring the pot of potatoes closing the lid when she stood over me asking, “what are you doing?”
I said, just checked the simmering pots, and as I turned to comment, I see my 7-year-old son holding my mother’s hand reminding me when I was his age.
She turns to my son an says, I brought you in here to lick the bowls, but I see you dad has beaten you to it. Before I could say anything, She tells my son look at his middle fingers they are sticky, and the bowls are clean.
My son’s face is saddened, and I sheepishly shrug my shoulders and ask do you want to lick my finger?
My mother punched my shoulder telling me don’t be mean to my grandson. Looking at him she says my son, “you and I will bake chocolate-chip cookies, and your father cannot lick any of the bowls.” He smiles, and I leave the kitchen licking my fingers.
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