Market Day

samedi, le 26 septembre 2009

I can hardly believe another month has flown by! It is again last Saturday of the month Village Market Day. My Bountiful Friend is away on what I seriously suspect is a DW (Dirty Weekend) with an ex-lover, but for now she is remaining tight-lipped. So this month I make the trip on my own.

My Mother has already secured the best table in a shady spot under the trees when I arrive. She’s happily chatting to friends and as I walk up to greet her, I think what a truly remarkable woman she is.

She is 91 years old. She still drives her own car, in fact she bought a new car about five months ago, just because the A-class Mercedes is now available with a glass panel in the roof. She has always had a thing about a sunroof in a car and this was the closest she was going to get in the model she loves. She lives in a retirement village in a dusty industrial town about an hour’s drive from the city in which I live. Her house is beautifully decorated in modern, bright furniture and she’s always making changes and adding fresh new touches. She is mentally alive and alert. She lives life to the fullest and enjoys every minute of it. I envy her energy, her determination, her zest for life.

She jokingly scolds me for loosing too much weight and tells me she has a surprise for me to stop the weight loss. I wonder whether she has kidnapped L’homme and is holding him hostage in her car. We both know the reason for my weight loss and my weight has always been a touchy subject, especially with L’homme.

I’ve often been somewhat overweight and have battled most of my life to be thinner than I am. But I have the kind of body that adds a couple of grams around the waist by simply thinking of meals to prepare. A trip past the deli-counter is a sure gain of a few more grams. When I look at a menu, I’ve already added more weight before my order is placed in front of me.

My mother is an excellent cook, genes she made sure were transferred to me. I love good food, I love eating well. I hate the consequences. But since L’homme left, eating has been difficult. The upside is, I’m much thinner than I was when he was around.

My Mother and I take a walk past the food stalls. I pick a plate of gnocchi with a delicious Napolitana sauce. I wolf it down and tell her my apetite is back. But I suspect she knows it’s not true. We sip our ridiculously large glasses of red wine and exchange stories of a week gone by.

My mother buys me a beautiful apron to encourage me back into my kitchen. I buy burgandy roses and lovely pickles for a foodie friend’s upcoming birthday.

When we leave, My Mother fetches me a desktop convection oven from her car. She assures me it is a must have in a kitchen for one. I hug her tightly, thank her profusly and think how much I love her, how special she is.

It is nice to come home to The Princess who is elated to see me.

(I always wanted a garden that was just purple, white and green, but I think the time has come to add splashes of colour. Today I bought a burgundy rose bush, I can’t wait for it to flower and flourish in my garden.)