being need­ed

I some­times go through phas­es when I won­der, “What pur­pose am I serv­ing, any­way?” Days pass when I don’t seem to accom­plish any­thing more sig­nif­i­cant than emp­ty­ing the laun­dry bas­ket, gro­cery shop­ping, putting a few things in envelopes and mail­ing them. Tasks any­body could do, I’m noth­ing spe­cial for it. These are days I will wish I had back when my days are more obvi­ous­ly num­bered than I already know them to be.

At such times, I imag­ine myself with a prop­er job. Show­ing up at my local cafe every morn­ing to make lattes and serve unap­pre­cia­tive cus­tomers with shout­ing chil­dren. Show­ing up every day at my local fish­mon­ger to sweep the floor and tidy up after the peo­ple work­ing there who actu­al­ly know how to fil­let a hake (and how to tell a hake from a cod).

Or I could go back to school to get a degree in child psy­chol­o­gy, and start a prac­tice help­ing teenage girls get along with their par­ents. Or open that myth­i­cal art gallery/bookshop and get used all over again to wor­ry­ing about how to pay the rent.

I know this is all an unbe­liev­able lux­u­ry. Most peo­ple don’t have the option to sit around hav­ing exis­ten­tial anx­i­ety; they are too busy sur­viv­ing. But I do have the lux­u­ry, and I do wor­ry. What is it all about? My friend Bee has sug­gest­ed that “mid­dle age” isn’t so much about hav­ing lived half your life, but rather being in the mid­dle: between your moth­er and your child, won­der­ing some­times what it is all about, and who we are meant to be for the time we have left.

Then, like clock­work, before I can indulge myself too much in my quest for self-expres­sion, my phone rings.

“Hi, cutie, what’s up?”

“My throat is real­ly sore. I maybe don’t think I can stay at school.”

“Well, I’m in a car with your father just pass­ing the school, so you have to decide RIGHT NOW.”

“But I don’t know what the teach­ers would say, or where to go, and I’m los­ing my voice.”

“Then do you want me to come get you? Quick!”

A trail­ing wail… “I don’t KNOW…”

I jump out of the car, say­ing, “I’ll get to school in five min­utes and then you can decide.”

The phone rings again. It’s that old clas­sic: the grumpy school nurse.

“Your daugh­ter is here say­ing she feels unwell.” (Avery told me lat­er that when she turned up at the infir­mary, the dear lady har­rumphed and said, “I was just about to take a tea break.” A born nur­tur­er, clear­ly: Nurse Ratch­et’s Eng­lish sister.)

“Yes, I know, I’m on my way and I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Well, we don’t want our girls stand­ing about out­side the school in the cold, so you can tele­phone when you arrive, and I’ll send her up.”

So warm and fuzzy. I arrive, I ring up, a cou­ple of windy, unpleas­ant min­utes pass and Avery appears, gray-faced with her eyes look­ing, as my moth­er would say, “like burned holes in a blan­ket.” I take her school­bag, she but­tons her coat, she puts her arm around my waist and we head home.

“Did you at least have lunch?”

“Well, sort of. It was meant to be a chick­en stir fry, but I put in my fork and up came a PRAWN.”

“Per­haps a bowl of chick­en soup when we get home… I made some for Dad­dy’s toothache and there’s a lit­tle left.”

So we arrive at home, she has a bowl of soup and some but­tered crack­ers, I give her a cough drop, a warm throw around her knees, a new mys­tery propped up beside her. I share the throw and we lie at oppo­site ends of the sofa, legs stretched out, she takes her tem­per­a­ture, no fever. Relief.

And there we stay, all the rest of the after­noon, each with our book, doz­ing slight­ly and watch­ing the bare branch­es out­side wav­ing back and forth against the steely March sky, feel­ing lucky. And today, a gor­geous dish of apple crum­ble to reward her for going to school when I would much rather have kept her home.

I know there aren’t many years left when the voice on the oth­er end of the phone could be my daugh­ter, need­ing to be picked up at school, giv­en a lit­tle TLC, a child who wants to spend the after­noon curled up with me and a cat, recovering.

My plan for self-actu­al­iza­tion can def­i­nite­ly wait awhile.

Apple Crum­ble
(enough for one child for at least six breakfasts)

150 grams/2/3 cup plain flour
60 grams/1/4 cup gran­u­lat­ed white sugar
80 grams/1/3 cup cold butter
4 Granny Smith apples, peeled and cut in bite-size pieces
sprin­kle fresh-ground nutmeg
sprin­kle fresh-ground cin­na­mon (or powdered)

This is a love­ly, light crum­ble, by Simon Hop­kin­son, one of my favorite Eng­lish cook­ery writ­ers. My crum­bles used to have too much but­ter, which result­ed in a heavy top­ping. And my friend Livia gave me, for Christ­mas, a cin­na­mon grinder. I’m devot­ed to it now. The scent is so much fresh­er than ready-ground, and it’s fun to do. I’ve also turned my back on ready-ground nut­meg. The aro­ma of fresh-ground just runs cir­cles around the pow­dered stuff.

Place the flour and sug­ar in your food proces­sor and turn it on. Then, a lit­tle chunk at a time, drop the but­ter into the lit­tle hole at the top and clamp your hand over the hole: flour will tend to show­er out the top when the but­ter dis­turbs it, the first cou­ple of chunks. Use up all the but­ter and whizz until the mix­ture is nice and sandy.

Scat­ter the apples in a nice oven­proof dish, sort of 8x6, or even a pie plate would do, I sup­pose. Scat­ter the crum­ble top­ping over all and grate a sprin­kle of nut­meg, and of cin­na­mon, over the whole thing. Just a dusting.

Bake at 180C/350F for about 25 min­utes, till the top is gold­en. Don’t let it burn. Serve warm with ice cream for that sore throat.