I grew up in the country raised by a pretty badass mom. My mom was a registered nurse for 54 years. She worked at a small hospital located on the top of a hill in an equally small town. The offices and patient rooms in the hospital had a stunning view of the lake below. She mostly worked the 7am  to 3pm shift and was home when I returned from school. Sometimes she would cover the 3pm to 11pm shift for a fellow nurse but not often. She was perfectly suited for that profession. She was amazing. But what really made her enormously amazing was the mother she was (and still is) while I was growing up. In between all the days and hours that she worked as a nurse she was a gardening, cooking, baking, canning, and sewing queen. And the royal term of “queen” is a bit of an understatement. 

Gardening was a big part of my mom’s life. And it was a huge garden. It had a hedge of raspberry bushes followed by rows and rows of vegetables. We had beets, beans, radishes, squash, zucchini, cucumbers, pumpkins, tomatoes, carrots and more. Springtime would arrive and my mother would gather her basket with a collection of seed packets. Passing me a packet of pumpkins seeds, she’d patiently show me how to space and cover the seeds. I remember eating dirt covered carrots from the garden on sunny afternoons. With the promise of a quarter or two, I would weed rows of veggies after my mother carefully pointed out the emerging plants and how to spot the weeds. Reaching through the prickly raspberry bushes, I’d pick cartons filled to the brim with the red “button” berries. In bare feet, I’d walk between the rows and rows of plants with my feet sinking in the sun-warmed dirt with each step. My mother’s garden was a glorious place. My mother’s magnificent garden.

Many of the vegetables from her garden found their way preserved inside jars. The jars filled shelves situated in our garage. There were jars of golden peaches. Jars of savory tomato sauce. Jars of “dill”icious pickles. Jars of tangy applesauce. It was a rainbow of glass contained fruits and vegetables perfectly lined up. My mother was a canning queen. The kitchen would be whistling and ticking as the pressure cooker was at work. The table would be overtaken with jars, lids, pots, funnels, dish towels and a jar lifter. Shifting from table to stovetop with moments of steam billowing around her, my mother would preserve some of the delicious bits from her garden. 

The preservation went beyond the jars too. She made sauerkraut in a large earthenware crock pot. The heads of cabbage would glide across the kraut cutter as my mother shredded a pile of cabbage heads. The shredded cabbage would be salted and pounded with the kraut stomper. Again and again. Then finally sealed beneath the pressure of a wooden lid. Besides preservation within a crock pot, she would preserve slices of apples on top of screened frames. Sitting outside under the afternoon’s glowing orb, she would slice the apples and my siblings and I would place them on the screens. Sweet, crunchy pieces of apples filling every possible surface of the screens. Meals at our home were literally the fruits (and veggies) of my mother’s labor. 

The kitchen wasn’t only for garden preservation. My mother was a baker. The most memorable baking from her kitchen was the birthday cakes. She never ordered a cake from a bakery or bought a cake at a store. She made our birthday cakes. These cakes were not simple round, layered cakes either. A butterfly. A sailboat. A flower. A snowman. Each one embellished with candies perfectly placed on a soft canvas of frosting. Keep in mind, my mother had four children. I can remember on my birthdays I would be beaming as a cake was placed in front of me. Candles lit. Wishes made. One of the greatest childhood gifts from my mother on my birthday – the cake. 

One of my cherished tops as a child was a sleeveless smock with lace along the shoulders and red apple buttons. My mother made it. And it wasn’t the only garment she made for me. She sewed a robe for me with quilted, silky pink fabric. I felt like a princess every time I wore it. My closets and drawers were filled with items sewn by her. She sewed for my brother. She sewed for my sisters. As we slept, she would sew. I would wake up to an outfit hanging up waiting to be finished. Or to a one that was finished and waiting to be worn. She sewed our Halloween costumes. A clown suit for my brother made with boldly striped flannel fabric. An angel costume for my sister with sleeves that were edged with silver Christmas tree garland. A witch one for me with silky black fabric that flowed with every movement. The hum of a sewing machine was a familiar sound in our home. 

Nowadays, people seem to be getting into this whole “homestead” movement – grow your own, raise your own, make your own. During my childhood, my mom was nailing this way of life. She was a true badass. She was a nurse. She was a gardener. She was a canner. She was a baker. She was a seamstress. And in all these, she was pretty damn amazing. Frankly, she still is. My childhood was filled with husking sweetcorn around a small table with my sibling, filling buckets of rocks from the garden for a quarter, munching on radishes pulled right from the soil, twinning with my sister in handmade clothes and smiling through it all. I was a happy, well-raised kid. Thanks Mom.