Hobo Stew

I wrote this in 24 hours. Give me a break on typos and consistency.

Jenny set down the crock pot to sort through her keys for the one to her deceased parents’ house. She unlocked the house and saw everything was in order. The windows were opened to let the fresh Memorial Day morning air in. She returned to her car for the florist arrangement of small sunflowers. Setting them on the table, she frowned and returned a second time to the car for what ingredients she could remember of her Mother’s favorite recipe: Hobo Stew.

The recipe wasn’t in the recipe file box. As she was about to look elsewhere, she heard someone fumbling at the door. “Dadgumit, Jenny. I know you’re in there.”

Jenny knew her brother, Mitch, would show up sooner or later, so she unlocked the door to let him in.

“Why,” said Mitch, “do you always have to relock it? I couldn’t get in because you are the only one with the key.

“I don’t want just any hoodlum to come in and wreck the house. Mitch, get your shoes off. You’ve tracked in mud. Dad put that carpet in himself.”

“So, I’ll walk on the kitchen linoleum.” In the kitchen, Mitch saw the crock pot and inspected the ingredients. Then he saw the flowers.

“Flowers? For Hobo Stew?”

“Father brought Mother sunflowers,” said Jenny, “when he first dated her. Dad loved her favorite recipe, Hobo Stew. She’ll see me from heaven that I’m not fixing it her way.” Her attention shifted to cookbooks where the recipe file card might be stashed.

“Simple,” said Mitch. “Put in the stew meat, the potatoes, and cabbage and call it Mom’s Hobo Stew. She wouldn’t care.”

Jenny put her hands on her hips and stared at Mitch. “It’s you who doesn’t care. You were going to wear a stained t-shirt and work jeans to church if Dad hadn’t got after you.

“All right. All right. I admit it. I liked her Hobo Stew. But I don’t remember it being the same every time.”

“Well, it was. I want to fix it right for my family. Our children are coming at six. Help me look for the recipe.”

Mitch screwed his face to one side and looked around for a good place for a recipe. He slammed desk drawers open and shut. The filing cabinet shut as loud as he could make it. Not finding it, he said, “This is a waste of time. Just like we had to wait on you to be ready for church each time. Cook the stew, and be done with it.”

Jenny glared at Mitch. “I wanted to look nice. Every Sunday morning, Father would tell me how beautiful I was. It was worth the time it took.”

“So,” said Mitch, “you were buttering him up to give you that car and the money to go to beautician school. Dad said I had to earn my way through college, but Mom worked a job to help me pay for room and board and books.”

“It’s a wonder,” said Jenny angrily. “That you agreed to maintain this house in memory of our deceased parents.”

“I figure,” Mitch said as if obvious. “It’s an investment that will grow over time. Mom would agree with me.”

“Mama’s boy!” said Jenny.

“Daddy’s girl!” said Mitch.

The doorbell rang. The brother and sister answered the door together.

A man their age said, “Hi cousins. I saw your cars and thought I’d come visit.”

“Hi Gabe,” said Mitch. “Here for Memorial Day?”

“Yep.” Gabe held out his hand to shake Mitch’s and gave Jenny a gentle hug.

“Have you,” said Jenny, “been to the cemetery yet?”

“Not yet. And you?”

“No,” said Jenny and Mitch in unison. They glared at each other.

“I need to start the stew,” said Jenny. “Then I’ll be ready.” She whispered to Mitch, “You win, but it’s not going to be called Hobo Stew.”

“We’re going to go separately,” said Mitch as he watched Jenny go to the kitchen.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have plenty of room in my van. Oh, look at that. You have flowers to put on your parents’ graves. Were they your Mom’s favorites?”

“I…uh…” said Mitch.

“Wish I had thought of that. Roses were my mom’s favorite.”

Jenny returned to Gabe and Mitch. “I’ve lost Mother’s recipe. The stew’ll have to be good enough as is.”

“Your mother’s recipe?” said Gabe. “I have it. Your Mom gave it to mine because she loved it. Don’t have it with me. But I’ll make sure you get it back… Let’s get started…Could we stop at Beauties for the Beauty Floral Shop? I want to get roses. They were my Mom’s favorites.”

At the cemetery, the three first stopped at Gabe’s mother’s grave.

Gabe set down the roses and stepped back. Tears came to his eyes. “My mother. Best cook. Best housekeeper. Best at making time for me. You know that Dad is buried in a military cemetery, don’t you? He had a time instilling in me the good values a man should have. He always said I should honor my country and mother, provide for my family, and give God first place."

They moved on to Mitch and Jenny's parents' graves. "What did you learn from your parents?” asked Gabe.

Mitch cleared his throat. “We were always first in their minds. Weren’t we, Jen?

Jenny dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Yes.” She set her bouquet down. “This seems so inadequate to show how much we love them or remember how much they loved us. I remember being sick when I was about seven. Mother took me on her lap and held me. She wasn’t worried about getting sick herself. She was worried about me and how I felt…Mitch, what do you remember about Father?”

Mitch looked at his Father’s grave. “I never appreciated him as much as I should have. He made me mow the lawn and shovel snow when I was sixteen. It was the best thing he could have done for me—teach me good work ethic. I’ve used that to earn my living, build my house, and plan to teach my children my skills. Jenny, can we leave our differences behind to enjoy a real family gathering with good memories?”

“For sure. Gabe, did you ever re-marry after your divorce?”

“No. I guess I want a wife like my mother. And she was one of a kind.”

“Then join our gathering,” said Mitch. “You can show what a good uncle is like to Jenny’s and my children. They’ll be coming at six.”

Gabe perked up. “Then I have time to go home and get your Mom’s recipe for Hobo Stew.”