I made biscuits and gravy one stormy night this past week. Wy took his first bite and said, 'Mmmmm, thanks mom.' Then, as an afterthought, he added, 'Good cookin, mama.' This 'good cookin' compliment has become as much a part of our meals like bread and butter is to a supper table. E got him started on it months and months ago. Daddy doesn't even get to say it first anymore. Wy almost always beats him to the punch.
Then Wyatt said to me, after chewin thoughtfully on a hunk of Jimmy Dean sausage drowned in gravy, 'Mama, you make me feel happy.'
Blast it! Hold the phones and stop the presses! Here and again, I just wanted to grab him, smother him with kisses and hugs and never let him grow-which would mean no more food, which in turn, would mean no more compliments, the whole of which I could simply not bear! So, I guess I'll feed him and let him grow, and taxi him around to this and that, and go off to college, and move out, and get a....a....what are those things called?....fake smile, high-pitched chatter boxes with makeup plastered on so thick a pitch fork couldn't take it off? Oh, yeah, 'scuse me, a girlfriend. Yeah, I guess that will eventually have to come. But you better believe good 'n well, I'm gonna enjoy ever-single-lovin, tear-inducin, heart-swellin compliment that I ever ever ever get from my men.
And if ever I don't hear that compliment, I just want y'all to know that my body is immediately overcome with anxiety. I hyper-ventilate. My knees start shakin and my heart palpitates. Do they not like this meal? I made it three weeks ago and they chowed down! Is it too salty? Too crusty? Too dry? Too flaky? Too bland? Too spicy?
I'm just kiddin. They'll eat whatever the heck I slap down on a plate! Even if it is day old bread soaked in milk with some beans! They're always grateful! And for that, I'm even more grateful.
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