Just Like Clay

Just Like Clay

I hate cooking, just like Mama. It always makes my kitchen and my sink and my apron and my hands dirty. I never know how much of each thing to put in, because I can’t read yet. Mama can read, but she still puts in the wrong numbers of things. Her chicken is always salty, her brownies wet.

I pull my apron over my big head. I don’t tie it, cause I can’t. I open up the doors to the oven and pull out blue, yellow, red, and green plates. They go on the hot, blue picnic table. Mama hasn’t bought a sun umbrella for it, yet.

One, two, three, four plates. I only put out three forks, because number four got lost a long time ago. Probably more than five or ten years ago. That’s ok. There’s only two of us, today, anyway.

I go back to the oven and open it to find my big mixing spoon. This will be handy, and I need a bucket, too.

“Mama, I need a bucket!”

“There’s one in the pool, Cleo!” Mama is inside. She watches me from the kitchen window as I play. She said she was going to do the dishes, but I don’t think she is today. We hate dishes, too.

I go to the pool. It’s a little one, the kind that goes away and gets cleaned every time we’re done. Mama never puts enough water in it, so I get bored. Not like the neighbours' pool, which is big with lots of water that stays inside. We dump our pool water in the garden, but the neighbours keep and clean their water, too, not just their pool.

My yellow bucket will be perfect for the mud. The mashed potatoes, I mean. I carry it over to the sandbox and scoop sand into it using my hands. When it’s full, I try to pick it up, but I can’t. I’m not strong like Daddy, yet.

I go back to the pool, and I pick up a blue cup from Mama’s kitchen. Mama lets me play with real kitchen cups outside sometimes, even though they’re supposed to be for drinking. I fill up the cup, and take it to the yellow bucket full of sand and dump it in. I do this probably one hundred times. And then, ta da! Mashed potatoes!

I grab my mixing spoon, stir stir stir, and then put a big plop of mashed potatoes on my yellow plate and on Mama’s blue one. I use the round part of the spoon to smush them into my best circle, then I use the pointy part to draw a smiley face. Just like Mama does.

Mama taught me about the food pyramid and nutrients and carbs and protein, so I know mashed potatoes isn’t a full meal. I sit down in the sandbox and think really hard. Then I have the best idea ever!

What did Mama make with her mashed potatoes the other week, when we went to Grandma’s house? She hadn’t drawn any smiley faces that day, but she also hadn’t complained about cooking, even though she does every day at dinner time at our house. We both hate cooking.

But Grandma had been happy that day, and so … so were Mama and me.

“Mama, what did you make with your mashed potatoes?”

“What?”

“What did you make with your mashed potatoes?”

I can’t see Mama’s face through the window because of the sun. She doesn’t answer, and instead walks to the door with a screen, the one that comes to the backyard, and opens it.

“When? Yesterday?”

“At Grandma’s house. When we were there, she asked you to cook her favourite food?”

Mama blinks, then stares. She has been doing that a lot.

“Swedish meatballs. And green beans.”

I smile. “With brownies for dessert!”

Mama smiles, too. I’m not sure if it’s a real one, though, cause her nose doesn’t crinkle on the one side the way I like. “That’s right. Those were Grandma’s favourite.”

Did they stop being Grandma’s favourite? ‘Were’ is before, right? I’m not sure how it works, cause I’m a kid, but I’m pretty sure they’re still her favourite.

I look around the big backyard. What can I use to make meatballs? The gravy will be easy, I can just make really watery mud and pour it on top of everything. But meatballs are harder. I decide to try clumps of grass, rolled into balls. They fall apart right away. But then I notice that grass is green and so are beans, so I straighten out the grass and put some on the plates beside the potatoes. Green beans, check.

Then I have the next best idea. I really need to surprise Mama, so I can make her smile and crinkle again, so I tip-toe to the screen door. I open it as slow and quiet as I can, and go to my craft bin in the playroom. Weeks and weeks ago, before Grandma died and stopped loving brownies, Mama bought me brand-new colourful clay. It’s like play-dough, but you’re supposed to leave it out when you’re done making with it, so that you can keep it forever. Daddy uses real clay, with a wheel, just like Grandma used to. He said he’ll teach me someday.

This will be perfect for meatballs. Grandma couldn’t stay forever, but her favourite meal can.

As I head back outside, super quiet with the clay hidden beneath my shirt, I see that Mama is not in the kitchen. I wonder where she went, but I know if I go to find her, the surprise favourite meal will be ruined.

But the next problem is that meatballs are brown, and there is no brown. I try making them with red clay, cause meatballs are red before they go in the oven, but they look like squished clown noses, and I’m not happy. Mud is brown, so I grab some of the leftover mashed potatoes from the yellow bucket and mix them with the red meatballs. Perfect. I plop them down next to the real mashed potatoes, the ones on mine and Mama’s plates. Check.

Time for gravy. The Swedish kind. I grab the blue cup again and bring more water from the pool, pouring it into the yellow bucket again and again. More water with less sand makes the perfect gravy, so I pour it over the meatballs and the potatoes, too. The smiley faces disappear under it, but that’s okay. I know they’re there.

Okay, the last thing I need is brownies. Uh oh, brown again, and no brown clay. Maybe if I make more mud, but with less water? But it might not be hard enough, like real brownies are. I think and think and think really hard, but I can’t remember how to make brown. Daddy taught me probably years ago, when we were painting. My Daddy is a good painter. Like an artist. I used to think I was an artist, too, cause Daddy said so, but what kind of artist can’t remember how to make brown? My face starts to feel warm, and it’s not from the sun. Mama calls this frustration. I think it’s just tears coming.

But then I remember! Mama’s brownies were wet at Grandma’s house, on that day, and Grandma had said they were the best she had ever had. Daddy and I had not agreed, cause they were runny, again. But Grandma loved them! She also loved Mama’s super-mashed mashed potatoes and the hard beans and the just-okay gravy, too. Daddy said the chemo made her taste buds confused. I don’t know what chemo is, but even if I did, I’m sure that wasn’t possible. Taste buds don’t have to think, they just taste.

But if wet brownies made Grandma happy, and a happy Grandma made me and Mom happy, then it would be okay if my brownies were a little wet, too. So I decide to just make them with mud, anyways, even if they turn out soupy. I’m just like my Mama.

Our plates are full, so I use the green and red plates for dessert, and it’s a good thing, cause the brownies slosh like soup.

Everything looks perfect. Mama is going to love this.

I make sure the plates are set up just right on the table, and add some pretend apples that Mama says are plastic. I go inside to look for Mama. She’s still not in the kitchen, and she did not do any dishes, either. The bathroom door is open, so I know she’s not in there, cause she always closes it, even though Daddy says I don’t have to.

I find her on the couch, in the den. She’s asleep, which is crazy. We haven’t even had dinner yet. I don’t just mean my surprise dinner; I mean real dinner, for real. I nudge her a few times. Her eyebrows pull together, but she doesn’t open her eyes.

“Cleo, honey, I just need a few minutes.”

“But I have a surprise for you.”

Mama opens her eyes, but closes them again quick.

“Can you show me after my nap?”

“Mama.”

Mama groans. She rises onto an elbow and grabs the remote, putting on Bluey. I hate Bluey. I’ve seen every episode so many times.

“Watch one episode of this, then I’ll get up.” Her eyes close again.

I go to the kitchen and grab a Bear Paw from my snack bin that Mama made for me. She calls it Montessori. It’s in one of those zip bags, cause I can’t open the real Bear Paw packages. I eat my snack sitting on the kitchen floor. It tastes like sand.

Back in the den, Bluey is at the Beach. That reminds me of the pool outside, and I decide to go give the shallow water another chance, but then Bluey ends, so I jump on Mama.

“Mama, Bluey’s over! It’s time for your surprise!”

“Oww. Cleo, careful.”

“Sorry, Mama.”

“It’s okay, honey. Just let me get some water and wash my face, then you can show me the surprise.”

I hop up and down while I wait. I’m so excited. Mama is going to smile and say it’s perfect even though it’s not, just like Grandma, and her nose is going to crinkle. It doesn’t do that enough lately.

I pull a fresh-faced Mama out to the backyard. The sun is a little less hot, behind a cloud.

“Ta da!”

“Cleo!”

“Do you love it?”

“Is that my clay? Oh, Cleo, it’s a huge mess. We were supposed to make little people with that clay.”

I’m confused, like taste buds after chemo. This was supposed to be one way, but it’s a different way for some reason. I realize it’s because of me. I had forgotten. Mama wanted to make our family with the clay. We already had a Mama and a Daddy made, waiting for Cleo in the dollhouse. They were hard already, but we hadn’t made Cleo yet. Mama was going to show me how to make my little head, my arms, my tiny nose. Now we couldn’t.

My cheeks get hot again. It’s definitely not frustration this time. The tears are already out. Normally, tears are hot, but they feel cold cause my cheeks are hot from the sun and from sadness.

“I thought it was my clay.” I’m really quiet. I hope Mama heard me.

“It is, but… oh, Cleo.” She breathes in, blinks. Looks at our perfect, favourite-meal plates, then back at me. “You’re right. It’s not a big deal. We can buy more clay. I was just surprised.”

My tears have stopped. “Surprised is good!”

Mama doesn’t say anything. I think she’s doing that thing she does, where she just breaths with her eyes closed and does nothing else. She calls it a reset. When she’s ready, she opens her eyes and smiles, but it’s not all the way real.

“Tell me what you’ve made.”

My smile starts, even as I talk.

“Grandma’s favourite meal! Mashed potatoes are here, and the green beans are here. There are smiley faces, too, but you can’t see them. And this is the gravy on top of the clay meatballs, and these are the brownies. They’re a little wet, but Grandma says that’s ok!”

Mama did that thing where she closed her mouth tight, and I could hear the air going in through her nose really quick with a whistle. But then she smiled again, and there was a little crinkle this time.

“Oh, Cleo Cat. You are so thoughtful.”

I love that. Cleo Cat. Only Mama and Daddy call me that.

“I know we hate cooking, but I kind of had fun, anyway.”

Silly Mama blinks again. “Cleo, I don’t hate cooking.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’m not sure why you think that.”

Maybe I’m confused like Grandma’s taste buds again.

“Because you always say you don’t want to make dinner, can we just order pizza instead or eat cheese and crackers and fruit?”

Oh, there are those crinkles! The big ones, right where Mama’s nose touches her cheek on the one side. Mama even laughs! “I actually like cooking, honey. I just don’t like that I’m so bad at it.”

That makes sense. I don’t like being bad at things, either.

“You know who loved cooking? Your Grandma.” I didn’t know that. I don’t remember Grandma cooking, she was always sick.

“She always made me feel good at it, even though she was miles above me. I loved cooking with her. I’m glad I got to give her a meal she liked. At the end. She could only drink water after that.”

I don’t think Mama is actually talking to me, even though no one else is here. I want to ask her something, but I’m scared. I want her to laugh and smile some more, and maybe if I ask, she won’t. But I need to know because I don’t understand on my own.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Does Grandma still like brownies and cooking in heaven?”

She laughs, and this time, it’s my turn to blink.

“I’m sure she does, Cleo Cat.”

I smile and climb into Mama’s lap, kissing her crinkles.

“Wanna come make brownies with me? For dessert?”

I do want to! We leave my plates outside, clay hardening in the sun. Clay does that, after you shape it the way you want. I think Daddy said if you keep making with it, though, or make it wet, it will still change its shape. But you have to keep working at it. Maybe he can teach me more about that. He knows a lot about all kinds of art.

Mama carries me into the kitchen, even though she usually wants me to walk. We make brownies, adding flour and sugar and cocoa and even chocolate chips! Mama looks for what she calls a recipe on her phone, and we make a caramel sauce to go on top. They turn out soupy, but not as soupy as the mud brownies. Later, when we eat them, they taste pretty good. I guess we don’t hate cooking that much, after all.