Bittersweet Cobbler.

It was November. The weather outside was bitter cold. The weather inside just as bitter. I was bitter with mom. Mom was bitter with me. My bitterness stemmed from all the years mom chose alcohol over me. Mom was bitter because I moved in with her and dad in what should have been the twilight of their years together, children not included. That was one of the many ramifications of my own addiction.

I was trying though, damn it. I looked for work. I attended worship services. I prayed for mom to change. To give up her alcohol. She wasn't even making an attempt. I had spent an entire day and I do mean an entire day at the church baking cobblers for our annual fund raiser. The money we brought in would be used to buy Christmas presents for children who would otherwise not have a Christmas. The cobblers should have been a matter of hours not an entire day. But, Judy an elderly lady who "helped" sprinkled all the cobblers with salt instead of sugar. What a disaster!

I was tired when I left the church. I was dreading coming home to the bitterness and I began to pray. "God, please change mom. Please show her how hard I am trying." I heard God speak very clearly to me. Mom was not the problem.

The house was dark by the time I got home. I walked into moms' room. She was in bed reading a book. Her nightstand adorned with a lamp and a beer. I lifted the covers and slid into the bed. I shivered a little. I was both frightened and cold. I drew myself closer to her for the warmth. And I began to tell her about the disaster. I spoke though with a heart warmed by God and a sense of humor provided by God. We laughed as I retold the story of removing the crusts from the cobblers and attempting to wash off the salt. We laughed again when I told her we were trying to live up to a standard. A tradition that our cobblers were hands down the best cobblers. We laughed when I told her about sprinkling the crusts with extra cinnamon and sugar to disguise the salt. That there was no disguising the salt. Our cobblers would go down in the church annuals as the worst cobblers.

Mom died two months later. I was OK. I had a memory I could cherish. Those were the best cobblers in the world. Thank you God.

K. A. Shaw