The Great Consolidator

“Mary, You’re gonna go broke saving money!”  That’s what my grandfather used to say to my grandmother, ribbing her for that gallon jug of shampoo in the shower stall.  But he was the one responsible for the cases of undrinkable diet chocolate soda in the coat closet. And now this is what my own mother tells me, thrusting a jumbo jar of dried thyme in my face: “Maria, you’re gonna go broke saving money!  Spices lose their flavor when you hold onto them too long.”

She’s right. But it takes time to use up your thyme. Also, mustard powder. I bought a packet of mustard powder six years ago at the Awja Deli in Little Pakistan, the nickname for my Brooklyn neighborhood. Maybe it has lost some mustardy character, but it’s still eye-watering hot.

It’s Martin Luther King weekend and Mom has come to stay with me.

Three days alone together. I want to suggest we go get our nails done at the salon on Church Avenue, the good one, with the giant fish tank and goldfish the size of mangoes. But mom doesn’t have nails; she works too hard. Mom is the least vain person I know. We think about visiting the Brooklyn Museum, but with her arthritic spine, it’s hard for mom to get around. Besides it’s cold out. We stay close to home, and do home projects.

It’s good domestic policy to line up projects for mom’s visits. My household invites organizational aggression, and if I fail to pile up tasks, like sandbags, against the coming storm, mom will soon flood corners that I’d like to keep off-limits.  She will plunder my kitchen catch-all drawer and toss medicine cups, twisty ties and duck sauce. Admittedly, I don’t need any of these, but in the process, a claim ticket from the cobbler, or a tea bag tag with an uplifting quotation, will also be swept away. Mom will talk me into recycling my rusting tea kettle, though I love the way it whistles. Worst of all, my mother will bleach my coffee mug. I know it’s not rational, nor grateful, to resent a clean coffee cup, but the layered patina inside my mug represents morning upon morning of the joyful lived experience, of a first cup of coffee of the day.

So, in anticipation of mom’s visit, I’ve been collecting unmatched socks. I dump the basket on the dining room table before her.  In mom’s mind, people and socks should all find mates. Within ten minutes the tangled mound is spread, sorted and paired. Matched socks cuddle two-by-two in tight balls, ready for the sock drawer. But there are several loners left, and this is not okay. Mom sighs and turns on me, waving a cashmere knee-hi: “You must have a lot of money to waste Maria, these are expensive socks! You better look under all the beds.” So now I’m looking under mattresses and emptying the hamper and spreading the dirty laundry out on the floor, and we do scare up some strays and make more heavenly matches. Still, many single socks remain. Mom pauses. She is thinking. Quickly, she balls together similar socks, forcing matches that are not exact, but good enough. She throws the remaining singles at me. “This isn’t funny Maria.” I wasn’t laughing. “You really have to do a better job of not losing socks.” I wad these socks and hide them on my lap. And now the table is clear.

Pairing up argyles and tucking them deep into drawers appeases mom’s sense of order, of setting things right in a world which displays so much wrong. But her satisfaction is short-lived. She turns to my pantry, boots on the ground at my snack shelf. She dumps out three opened boxes of granola bars and forces them all back into one. She stuffs Rye Krisp flatbread into a box of graham crackers, and forces sleeves of Fig Newtons into the Lorna Doone Shortbread. She dismantles my spice rack, and orders me to bring up baby food jars from the basement. Mom takes my mortar and pestle and mashes cumin, paprika, cloves, chilis, and yes, the mustard powder. “Mexican pork rub!” she declares, as she funnels it into an applesauce jar.

I was a teen when I dubbed my mother: “The Great Consolidator.” Before dawn, before the garbage trucks even turned onto the block, Mom was in the pantry, consolidating cereal boxes: Raisin Bran and Special K, Muesli and frosted pillows of shredded wheat. Like a mouse in the dark, I could hear her rustling as she married dark raisins to golden, and crammed all herbal teas, all zingers and mints and chamomiles, by reason of their caffeine-free status, into one tin. As was true for socks, if it was close enough, it was good enough.

We all found mom’s meddling with our breakfast annoying. Despite our objections, Mom regularly combined quarts of skim, low-fat and whole milk so that cartons no longer accurately reflected their fat content, and actions like creaming your coffee became complicated. The worst was when you’d pour what you thought was maple syrup on your pancakes, but instead got honey, blended with Karo corn syrup. 

Today, opposite her at the kitchen table, watching from behind a wall of boxed ziti that she made me pull out so she can wipe down the pasta shelf, I wonder: “What does she get out of this?” To be of service to her children has always been Mom’s aim. Her arthritic hands don’t open cans or peel potatoes anymore, but they can still shake out that last cup of biscuit mix from a box of Bisquick to top off the pancake mix. It’s important for mom to feel useful, like a very old girl scout who leaves things better than she found them. I think that’s what drives her. And in the end, she does much more good than harm, when she visits. Net gain, not loss.

We’ve been at it all day. Just when I thought it was quitting time, Mom’s eyes shine. “Let’s make soup,” she says, putting on my apron, which I never use. The Great Consolidator, the Kandinski of the Kitchen, the Seurat of the Stovetop! Anyone who cooks understands that to create using only what’s on hand is high art, and Mom is the world’s best at making do: everything shriveled and forgotten at the bottom of the crisper drawer is dredged up, cleaned up and used up. She throws wide the cupboard doors and considers, “You’ve got a lot of black beans,” Mom says, pulling down three cans. “We’ll make soup!” Fifteen minutes later the stock pot bubbles, and mom adjusts the seasonings. Her caramel eyes flash:  “Do you have an open jar of salsa Maria?” I rifle through the condiments on the refrigerator door. “I do!” She dumps it in.  What else?”  I dig up a take-out clamshell of crusty rice from the Gyro King. In it goes.

Tomorrow, after breakfast, I will set Mom up in front of her Sunday morning political shows and hop in the shower. She will grow restless with the roundtable on “Meet the Press” and when I return, I will find my kitchen sink full of brown leaves. She will have pruned my peace lily—and all of my houseplants in fact.

For now though, I stand behind Mom’s chair at the kitchen table, invigorated by hot bean soup. I rub her neck while she plays solitaire. “Put the cards down mom, and just enjoy this moment.” She lays down her hand and sighs softly under my fingertips. “We were very productive today, weren’t we?” she says.  “Yes Mom, we were.” “Good enough to keep the Board of Health away for another day anyway!”

Discover the Great Consolidator's recipes for black bean soup and granola.