When I walked into Mom’s room last Wednesday, she was sitting in her favorite chair reading a book and munching on Russell Stover’s chocolates.
“Did my little brother give you those for Mother’s Day?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied and, with a twinkle in her 87-year-old eye, held out the box.
“No thanks,” I answered.
“Oh, I forgot,” she replied, still twinkling as she flashed a mischievious grin, “you’re allergic to chocolate.” She took another bite. “Yum!”
We played a few games of Rummikub and went to Chili’s for supper. We ordered a fried pickles appetizer, a classic 6 ounce sirloin for her and margarita grilled chicken for me. While we waited for our food, we read the dessert menu to pass the time. When our food arrived, we both ate our fair shares of the fried pickles and dug into our entrees.
After 2 bites of mashed potatoes, 3 bites of meat, and not a speck of her steamed broccoli, Mom laid down her fork and declared, “I’m full.” Then she flagged down the waitress. “Bring me one of those toffee brownies,” she said.
Full as she was, she managed to down the ice cream, the caramel sauce, the hot fudge sauce, and over half of a good-sized brownie. “Mmmm,” she exclaimed and held out a spoonful of ice cream in my direction. “Want a bite?”
Some days, I thought while declining the offer and reflecting on Mom’s agenda for the day–reading a good book, eating chocolate for an afternoon snack, going to dinner with her darling daughter, eating fried pickles, ignoring green vegetables, and eating more chocolate for dessert–87 looks really good.
