The Color Blue

May 26, 2016

Sometimes, people remind you of things. Other times, things remind you of people. In this instance, neither was the case. Colors, on the other hand, did remind Norah of things. Norah saw emotions and feelings in color, words, days, and people. Yellow, for instance, is Sunday’s color. And Sunday is the best day because there are always pancakes — whether they are sunny mornings or not. Blue reminded Norah of sad music mostly. This is an interesting fact considering blue is such a popular color and so many people’s favorite. Why is blue so many people’s favorite color? No one can tell Norah the answer to this simple question.

§§§

Norah read somewhere — she could not remember where — that blueberries were a good cancer-fighting food; something about the anthocyanins found in them were a powerful antioxidant for slowing the reproduction of cancer cells. With this in mind, Norah began to add blueberries to the foods she was preparing for her mom, which, in turn, set off her new love for baking. It all began when she found out her mom was sick, which prompted her first batch of blueberry-filled treats, and she had not stopped creating since. When she baked, she felt purposeful; she knew what she was doing and she enjoyed doing it. Nothing else mattered. Flour dusted the counters, sugar spilled in the bottom of the cupboard, icing smeared across her elbow, and it was all okay. She would fix it later because right now she was baking.

She started with blueberry pancakes on Sundays — because pancakes were always for Sunday breakfast in her family — then moved to muffins. Muffins were handheld, portable, carbohydrate-loaded snacks of fruit and sweetness that did not require a plate and silverware, or butter and syrup. Muffins were endless flavor combinations. And there was always the trusty standby blueberry.

Norah’s family ate her homemade sweets, and it made her happy. Seeing them partake in her sugary creations, watching them cut into a thick slab of seven-layer cake or peel back a muffin wrapper to unveil a tiny cake made of sugar and flour swirled in with love and affection. When she baked, Norah always remembered to think happy thoughts and reflect on fond memories so that her family could taste the happiness she folded into every batter. She was a big believer in the idea that you can taste the things someone is feeling when they prepare your food. It’s just as important as the environment around you when you eat. So, while she stirred and scooped, Norah thought back to their family vacation to the Hoover Dam, to a Thanksgiving they drove to Oklahoma, to her fifth birthday when her mother threw her a cowgirl-themed party, to all the most beloved memories she had stored up over the years.

Norah smiled, remembering, as she poured tall glasses of milk to accompany her chocolate caramel cake because nothing makes milk taste better than chocolate. Nothing tasted as sweet as seeing the smiles on her family’s faces, especially her mom’s. They ate everything she made, trying all her new flavors. But their favorite was always her blueberry cake. It was incomparable — dense, yet fluffy and moist, dotted with blueberries. Her family could taste the blue, could sense her feelings for the color changing with every new creation. They could taste the joy she felt while stirring the big bowls of batter with her favorite orange spatula, a smile spread across her face.

§§§

When her mom got sick, Norah took time off of work to care for her. In between the cooking and cleaning, she carved away time for her new baking hobby. But for a long time, she did not think of it as a hobby; it was more about caring for her mom, making sure she had something fresh and tasty to eat so that she might actually want to eat. She was distracted with worry for her mom and all her worry went into making sure her M&M cookies were perfect.

When she could not sleep, Norah would go down into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and stare into the oversized lit box until something popped out at her. With that sudden jolt of inspiration, she would pull it from the icebox and begin to create.

Opening cabinets, taking out bowls and measuring cups, pulling open drawers to grab a spatula and spoons. There was something about leaning back from the counter to pull open a drawer, reaching inside for her orange spatula, and then sliding the drawer shut again with her hip. It flowed nicely, seamlessly. It felt right and easy to be there in her kitchen, where everything was in its place and she knew where everything was.

After she had all the ingredients laid out on the table, Norah would slip her apron over her head, tie the bow behind her back, and begin her work: measuring, pouring, cracking, whisking, adding, folding, layering, mixing, rolling, and baking.

She did not worry while she baked. All of Norah’s anxieties fled when she stepped foot over the threshold of the kitchen. In assembling her little labors of love, her mind was quiet for once, sticking to its flavor profiles and oven temperatures. Norah could simply be in her kitchen. It was delightful enjoyment. Through her baking and seclusion, she was able to think what she wanted and, listening only to herself, Norah learned to love herself again. It reminded her that she was okay on her own, better than okay, just dandy, in fact. In the years she had spent putting others first, she had forgotten about herself. She remembered what she liked about being alone. She remembered books she wanted to read, favorite sayings, and memories of friends from college. She enjoyed turning off all the lights in the middle of the day and sitting in the dark if she wanted, just because she could, or eating chocolate cake for breakfast (with a glass of milk, naturally) because there was no one to tell her not to.

§§§

In the afternoons, when Norah was waiting for her latest creation to cool on the counter, Norah’s mom would ask her to come sit with her on the couch while she crocheted or read a book.

Norah would go to her mother and sit beside her to rub her feet or simply just to hold her hand while they watched her favorite television show. After a period of silence, Norah would ask her mother, “How about some coffee? Would you like a nice cup of coffee, Momma?”

“Yes, sweetie, that would be really nice. Thank you.”

Norah got up and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and take out the French press. Making coffee was like a ritual to her. Growing up, she had watched her mother do it every day. It was like watching her dad shave in the morning or her MiMi sew. It was special.

It was funny how Norah noticed that she was doing things in the same way her mother always had. When you are young, you watch your mother turning into her mother and you think, “No, it will never happen to me.” But all the while you know it will, even if it’s just a little bit. The sooner you accept this and can laugh about it, the better.

Norah had not gotten to the laughing bit yet, however. It kind of scared her really. She would make a face and then see herself as she passed the hall mirror and notice that she was making the same face she had seen her mother make a thousand times over. She would catch herself standing in front of the microwave, watching a plate spin in endless circles, and would step away to tend to something else because her mother always told her never to stand in front of the microwave. Why, she did not really know. She would just roll her eyes and slide a couple of inches away. Now, it was like she was standing outside of herself and watching her go through the coffee-making ritual just as her mother would.

Momma was the glue that held the family together. She could do most anything. And she did until she was diagnosed. Norah could not lose her. She couldn’t host the family parties. She couldn’t roast the turkey at Thanksgiving. She didn’t even know how all of her cousins and aunts and uncles fit into the giant family tree, How was she supposed to remember all of their birthdays? Who would host the family parties? Who would drive Aunt Edna to all of her doctor’s appointments? She could not do what her mother did. What would be expected of her if anything happened to Momma? Now, as she heated and frothed the milk, Norah thought back twenty-five or so years ago, to the first time her Momma let her have coffee.

§§§

To the kitchen she skipped to help Momma with the coffee. Norah liked helping; it made her feel useful, which is hard for a ten-year-old to feel in a big family predominately composed of grown-ups.

“Careful, sweetie, don’t burn yourself,” Momma said. She let Norah carry the pot of coffee to the table. It was heavy, but Momma trusted her.

As a special treat, Momma poured Norah a cup — a few drops of coffee in a mug of milk, just enough to change the color from white to tan. Giddy, Norah took the mug and heaped in teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar until Momma looked down at her and said, “That’s enough.” Norah was crushed, but then relaxed a little when Momma picked up her own cup and winked across the coffee table at her, before turning to listen to Aunt Alice’s conversation over whether blue was really blue or if it was in fact, green.

“Well, dearie,” Mi Mi said in between sips of coffee. “There are lots of different color blues. There’s cerulean, navy, baby blue, periwinkle, and robin’s egg b lue if you count Crayola colors, and I most certainly do.”

“Do you see the same blue as me, though? We have very different eyes,” Aunt Alice said, clearly upset about the trivial matter. It was nice of the family to humor her with replies.

Uncle Ollie much preferred tea to coffee and went to the kitchen to make a pot. He always offered everyone else a cup. Everyone else always declined.

Waiting for his water to boil, he returned now with a plastic carton of blueberries in hand, not aware of the discussion on blue. They had been discussing the correct way to hem a skirt when he made his quick escape.

“See, look at Ollie’s blueberries. What color are they? Navy? Blackish–blue?” Aunt Alice asked, almost jumping out of her chair.

“Well, are those blueberries or blue berries, Alice?” Poppa said with a smirk.

“Oh, you are a smart-aleck, you are,” Mi Mi said, laughing.

“C’mon, now you’re just making fun of me,” said Aunt Alice, sinking in her chair and trying to hide behind her black MIT mug.

“No, I’m serious, Al. I’ve thought about it before,” Poppa said, not wanting to let it go.

“I think those are blueberries, but some blackberries are really blue berries, too,” Norah chimed in.

“That’s my girl!” Poppa gave her a wave across the room. She beamed in her grandfather’s praise. Sometimes she liked her family, not just loved them because she had to, but really liked them.

§§§

Norah placed a fresh blueberry muffin on a plate with a doily. Then she poured the frothed milk into the mug of black coffee, sprinkled it with nutmeg, and brought the mug and plate out to her mom.

“Ahhh, this is perfect. Thank you, love,” Momma said and smiled after taking a sip.

“You’re welcome, Momma.” Norah smiled and took a bite of her own blueberry muffin. It was sweet and light and perfect.

§§§

Together, Norah and her mom sat on the couch, sipping their identical cups of coffee. She did not know what the future held, she but tried not to think about it because in these moments, everything was perfect and she did not want to miss enjoying them.

Life was sweet again, just as it was when she was a little girl. But now she could think about the color blue and not feel sad. That was the difference between being young and growing up. Now she looked at the color blue and thought of her family and blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings and of her mom, there, next to her on the couch, and she was happy.