A Last Supper

Yesterday, I cut up a whole chicken for the first time in decades.

A mother goes such extra miles when her youngest daughter answers “Chicken Fricassee” for her last home-cooked meal in what could be ten months or more.

For southern California is no hop, skip, and a jump from Detroit Metro Airport.

As you well know, dear Reader, I’ve had ample time to prepare for my daughter’s departure. Last week, I helped clean and pack her home on the west side. That exercise of mind over matter soothed my soul with hope.

For my daughter rented her house, offering the option for her return to her lovely place.

Therefore, I invited my one and only grandchild, raised by my second daughter and her husband in southern California, to join our last supper with my youngest daughter.

The young man graduates from Wayne State this May 5, and my California bound daughter has no option but to miss his ceremony.

I, a grandparent, have my ticket.

Now, I first laid eyes on my grandson in Uganda’s airport in December, 2010. Five years old at the time, he insisted on pushing my luggage cart through the airport. We celebrated Christmas together with my daughter and son-in-law in the home they rented in a town named Jinja.

Now twenty-one, I asked my grandson, “What would you like me to cook for you?”

“Beans and rice, please.”

Well, I’m Appalachian and well familiar with a simmering pot of pinto beans, so I asked, “Do you like pintos?”

“Yes, Jaja.”

I also keep a few boxes of non-GMO Mexican rice on hand.

He approved.

My dinner guests arrived promptly at four p.m. The chicken, celery, and carrots simmered in lemon sauce while the biscuit topping cooked to perfection.

My grandson helped himself to his pinto beans and Mexican rice, blended in one bowl.

“This is delicious,” said my daughter. “Thanks, Mom.”

Yes, another Chicken-Fricassee memory captured at my kitchen table.

Dear Reader, as my daughter and grandson don’t enjoy sweets as I do, I did not prepare a dessert to serve with my French press coffee.

Thankfully, I recalled the batch of chocolate/butterscotch lavender scones I’d baked for St. Patrick’s Day.

My daughter made the coffee while I plated the scones.

With his mouth full, my grandson turned to me. “Jaja! You need to open a café and serve these scones! They’re delicious!”

“Well, I thought they were good. That’s why I ate two of them St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Mom, the butterscotch chips make this the best scone I’ve ever eaten,” my daughter said.

I would’ve never guessed that a scone would upstage my daughter’s favorite Chicken Fricassee for her last supper at my table in months to come.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com