My Mother the Waitress

My mom

My mother rarely sat at the dinner table.

Instead she waited on us, dishing out

 food onto our plates, relishing

our compliments, encouraging us

to have more, often eating what

we left behind. She always had

fresh-baked cake or cookies or pie

for dessert,  never store-bought

always made from scratch.

  

I never realized how lucky we were

to have a mother that loved to cook

and lavish us with delicious meals,

serving us tirelessly as if she had

not spent hours peeling potatoes,

cooking vegetables, mixing ingredients.

I think she learned to be a servant

when she worked for a Jewish family

in Germany. Always in an apron 

working in the kitchen, never taking

time for her own needs or resting,

never even expecting a tip.