Recently in Portland, Maine, my husband and I went to eat lobster rolls at this great place for locals. I rarely have this treat, but it has special meaning for me.
A year before she died, my mother wondered if she should have a lobster roll at a fancy brunch with the whole family. It was the only thing really calling her from the menu. But she, who had no worries about money, worried about the price. I encouraged her that she should have whatever she wanted. It’s as if she needed someone’s permission to treat herself.
This is Mom, looking pleased as punch when the lobster roll arrived. So cute!
I can see what she must have looked like as a child, enjoying some simple pleasure, a bowl of diced mango sitting on the scrubby grass in Honolulu. She was in that moment at our fancy brunch the embodiment of abundance, receiving the goodness in life.
So on Monday at J’s Oyster, my husband and I clinked our beer glasses and saluted Mom. The lobster rolls were placed before us, straightforward deliciousness from the sea, with the mayonnaise wisely on the side. We savored the sweet flesh and got teary remembering Mom and wishing she could be here with us in this basic gratitude and enjoyment.
And she was there! The dead live on in us and these simple acts of remembrance. I will always think of Mom when I smell roses, see peonies, and spy a good lobster roll on a menu.
(When in Portland, Maine, go to J’s Oyster!!)