But First, Coffee

One of our sons is determined to make me, and his dad, and the caregivers, and anyone else who’s breathing more healthy. (Either that or he enjoys interrupting people’s comfortable lifestyle.)

Just the other day, I wanted to stay in bed and be served a cup of coffee. Because the aforementioned son was home overnight, I texted him with my room service request.

“Sure, Mom,” he texted back. Anticipating being spoiled with my cup of caffeine, I attempted some morning stretches (still in bed) . A few minutes later my butler tapped on my door and entered with a big steaming cup…of hot water laced with lemon juice. “We have to have this first,” he quipped. “Gets your system up and running.” Smile. I smiled back (kinda). I drank it and my reward was a half-cup of hot water that was poured through coffee grounds, known by its bougie name: the pour-over. (Had to avoid heating water in plastic drip pot of course.)

And God forbid the use of the microwave! Our son was aghast at the plastic, Styrofoam, shrink wrap, fake bamboo, and disposable paper materials the caregivers use to reheat their food and their snacks. He also discovered the myriad assortment of drinks they store in my refrigerator—liquids of rainbow colors and flavors that can only be described by made-up words.

I must say, some of this concern of his has foundation in the way he was reared. He and his four brothers grew up on a farm. They ate raw vegetables (with or without dirt) while they threw dirt clods at each other and chased wild rabbits worked with their dad. There was no convenience store within a few miles—and no vehicle to get there from where they were. Snacking on an ear of raw sweet corn was refreshing and having a plethora of bell peppers, green beans, turnips, cucumbers, peanuts, broccoli, sweet potatoes, as well as wild game they loved to hunt was a normal lifestyle. I was on sugar patrol. They weren’t exposed to very many common kid-friendly poisons until they started school, where they quickly acquired a taste for such forbiddens as Little Debbies and sweetened cereals. And they thought yogurt was supposed to taste sour and be homemade until they discovered the kind with the fruit on the bottom. This might sound as if we lived in a backwards region far off the grid, but not so. It was a normal life for our family in a beautiful piece of Paradise in south Georgia.

Now I observe our grown-up sons and see aspects of their dad’s stamina and grit (euphemistic for stubbornness maybe?) showing up in them as they establish their own companies, rear their capable and competitive children, and stay strong in their faith. I also observe their father’s determination to stay in control when, at 90 years old, he still accepts a challenge to arm wrestle.

Coping with their dad’s dementia and diminishing physical capabilities has affected each family member, and we all see how his strong will might have helped him survive two colon cancer surgeries, three stints on life-support, a stroke, heart failure, two heart monitoring implants, and finally traumatic brain injury from his fall. Even the youngest grandchildren recognize the fight in him and they all overlook his outbursts and mood changes.

Truth be told, I think they feel sorry for their grandfather when their uncle presents him a new concoction, such as the kale/cucumber/lemon/ginger smoothie or other strange combinations of health benefits in a glass. Sometimes they sip samples of the flavors just to test their taste buds—and surprisingly, they often like it!

But they have acquired a habit that to me is totally bothersome as well as completely unnecessary. They have become obsessed with expiration dates! I tell them sour milk never hurts anyone, especially if it only touches the lips, and smelling everything and checking the expiration date before tasting it is really ridiculous. In 56 years of cooking innumerable meals and thousands of snacks, I’ve never poisoned anyone (that I know of). Once my DIL called to ask my opinion regarding some sour cream. She said, “The expiration date on the carton is January 13 and this is the 20th. You think it’s okay to eat it?” I asked, “What year?”

Those dates also work to their advantage. Last night our 18-year-old grandson was checking out my refrigerator and sniffing the chocolate milk I’d just purchased. “I’ll do you a favor, Lollie,” he said. “I’ll drink this milk before it goes sour.”

With all the challenges, the disappointments, and the sadness, we still roll on with positivity and levity. I’m surrounded and supported by strong-willed people who, I suspect, all have chocolate candy hidden in the bedroom.

I do.