I am an oncologist, and a few years back I had a man coming to the end of life, and instead of hospice he said "I have to go home to say thank you and good bye" to all those who taught him life. He was weak, and in no shape to travel, but made the trip. <br />He mentioned an aunt and the browned butter peach tarts she made for him -"something my mother never did" . He shared this with a smile, and his gracious end in gratitude was unforgettable, and something i hope to emulate. <br />I wrote the poem to remember him, and to remember the "other mothers" who spoiled us. <br />The recipe depends on a Genius recipe:Paule Caillat's Brown Butter Tart Crust <br />That was the bridge this amateur chef needed to get an authentic pastry. I applied the fundamental principle that "a tart should be tart" and added kiwi and blueberries to the peaches. I am quite certain these were not the tarts Auntie Maria made, but the combination works. <br /> <br />The Other Mother’s Day <br /> <br />Before I die too young to die* <br />I must go back <br />To the country of my birth <br />And thank all those who taught me life <br />And the first I’ll thank is Auntie Maria <br />The aunt who made me tarts <br />A thing my mother never did <br />I could smell them cooking <br />The peach and lemon <br />And nutty browned butter <br />I knew they were coming <br />An hour or so before the first bite <br /> <br />Early in the morning <br />I saw the market basket <br />Filled with peaches <br />And a lemon <br />And the honey jar was out <br />There was a secret ingredient <br />She added with her back turned <br />Next a spoon of uncooked filling <br />Just for me <br />Her trademark, smiling scold: <br />“Leave some for the tarts” <br />Then all through the house <br />And outside you knew <br />Those tarts were coming <br />People would drift by <br />Just to say hello <br />How long have you been here? <br />They would ask me <br />Asking me about mother <br />And a few brave souls <br />Would ask about dad <br />As they ran out of questions. <br />Even as a child a part of me <br />Recognized their sinister plot - <br />They were just pretending <br />To care about me <br />Stalling for a bite <br />And so I cut my answers short <br />For I wanted all the tarts <br /> <br />But Auntie was generous <br />And as they gathered <br />She would explain to the neighbors <br />That her father, my grandpa Carlos <br />A man I only met through stories <br />Had come back through me <br />A spitting image <br />“It skips a generation” <br />They would say in response - <br />Every year I heard <br />The same antiphon: <br />Spitting image <br />It skips a generation <br />As they bit into my tarts <br /> <br />Much later, years later <br />I understood this more <br />When my aunt wrote out the family recipe <br />And explained her father Carlos <br />Would make the family tarts <br />A recipe from his mother <br />Passed along in mirth to me <br />The secret ingredient, <br />Finally revealed, was Love <br />And a pinch of cardamom <br />By then my mother had explained <br />More than once <br />Auntie Maria was the favorite <br />“She was always his favorite” <br />She said with an accepting smile <br />Years in the making <br />That was just a part of life back then <br />A fact to be faced <br />As I came to understand <br />My mother always felt <br />Her father made the tarts for Maria <br />And gave some to her <br />These days <br />Such favorites are shamed <br />In how-to parent books <br />And pies must be cut <br />In equal portion <br />If there are five children <br />Your love should be divided <br />Five equal ways <br />And just as those neighbors <br />Pretended to care about me <br />To stall for tarts <br />Auntie loved her father <br />And missed her father so much <br />That every tart she handed to me <br />She was handing to him <br />For I was her favorite <br /> <br />* four weeks before his premature death, a patient traveled back to the country of his birth “to thank them and say goodbye” <br />Bill McLaughlin MD

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