Hot Potato

Methodically she crushed the lemons with her fork until a pool had formed in what was meant to be her appetizer plate as our waiter (I imagine) looked on confused and a little bit frightened. Then she picked up the plate and poured the lemon juice in the water that had a few too many cubes to meet her standard of "not too much ice."

This is my mother. I just said goodbye to her tonight after she came to Boise for a three-day visit and, while it was very nice to see her, it was more than a little stressful.

Anyone who has met my mom knows her charming, confounding stream-of-consciousness weirdness. She makes puzzling statements with no explanation and she will be goddamned if she doesn't get her lemon wedges just right. And with this last quirk she actually has a point (sort of). She always asks for lemon wedges with her ice water and almost always gets lemon slices instead. It's hard to squeeze thinly sliced bits of lemon as opposed to quarters but, while most people would either deal with the small inconvenience of getting lemon on their fingers or just throw the slice in their water, my mom either badgers the waiter or engages in the above-mentioned ritual.

Between my mom mutilating citrus and expounding on why cell phones and the internet are ruining our lives, it was an exhausting three days. It was also, however, a reminder of how my mom's quirks and curiosity also endears her to total strangers almost immediately.

Tonight was mom's last night in Boise and I had to work until 10 p.m. So I swung by her hotel after work and we went in search of a beverage and a snack. We struck out at the first couple places and went to check out a place to which I had never been. Just as we were about to scrap that plan I hear, "Liz! Liz!" At first I thought, "No, that can't be directed at my mom, she's never been to Boise before." But, sure enough, Mohammed, the stylishly dressed Indian man to whom the voice belonged, was up out of his chair and insisting on buying mom a drink.

Earlier that day mom had wandered into a rug store and struck up a conversation with the man, who owns the store. She stayed for an hour and half talking to the man who turned out to be an Indian South African muslim with a Brazilian mom and an expired passport who had spent time in jail for anti-Apartheid activism. In one visit to his rug store my mom had clearly made an impression (it didn't hurt that she bought two rugs but I think the man was being genuine).

We spent an hour and half having drinks and shooting the shit with this guy and his fiancee. The whole time my mom was making bizarre comments that embarrassed me but clearly were hits with everyone else, even if sometimes they had no idea what she was talking about.

My mom is not only willing but excited to talk to everyone she meets and trade life stories and people love her for it and forgive (much more than me, I'm sad to say) her out there, sometimes innapropriate, comments. As a human being and a journalist I have a lot to learn from mom, even if I'm not ready to scrap my cell phone and internet connection or make lemonade with a fork.

Addendum: I realize that was a little schlocky. Tune in next week for a very special Blossom.