Magic Chef

When I was in college, I lived at home. 

It was a way to save money and avoid debt as a young adult. 

 

  I worked as a waitress four days a week at this restaurant, 

which happened to be below my Father’s office.  

I know what you locals are thinking, "Mmmmm, Bake ‘n Broil!"

It IS pretty amazing. But I still, to this day, have nightmares about having to wait
on the entire restaurant and not being able to get table AA the ketchup for their French fries. 

Working at the BnB helped pay my tuition,
and cover my extra curricular expenses.

By that time, it was just my mom and I in the house,
I being the last of her brood.

My mom and I. 2005.

I was at that point in my life where I was 

itching for as much freedom as I could eek out. 

Meanwhile, she was resisting an empty nest. 

We were two forces with two very different resolves.  

I would sweep in and out the front door, 

fleeing from my mother’s grasp, 

leaping towards freedom.  

And she would fly through the front door hoping to find me home, 

wanting somehow to connect, and the contact to never end.

    I had no real reason to not want to be around her.

  She was always a nice, loving mother who
was extremely proud and supportive.

  But there is something about your early 20s 

that just makes you squirm for autonomy. 

I had to apologize later for what I would refer to as my bitchy years, 

where any-and-everything she said to me was sooo annoying.  

There were, however, a few moments during that time
when I truly savored her presence.

Where a calm would take over,
and I was at peace being with her,
side by side. . .

. . . as mother and daughter.

  This was one of those moments. . .

Magic Chef

I remember
my mom’s magic chef
series 36
easy clean with uniburners,
and how we huddled next to it
on cold winter nights.
Our heater didn’t toast
didn’t light
didn’t perform--
So we rubbed our hands
over the oven tipped open,
my mom and I.
We forgot it was an oven
and saw a camp fire,
that warmed our palms
and cooked our meals.
We stood with our shirts
pitched open like tents,
bellies burning.
[Poem by: Aimee Mandala ©2005]

Magic Chef. Series 36.