The Best of Mary Schmich

In the B trimester of English I, we are going to be studying various columnists and the art of column writing.  Each freshmen English teacher took on the task of reading one collection of columns.  I chose The Best of Mary Schmich and I could not be happier with my choice.  Mary is a columnist for The Chicago Tribune and I loved her writing style.  I felt such a strong connection to her and kind of feel like we should be friends.  So many of her columns were ones I connected with on a personal level.

The book as a whole is divided into various categories where you see her best columns, respectively.  For example, one section contains all columns on her mother (they are hilarious), another is titled "Holidays", yet another "Chicago."  She has a way of taking the small things in life and making them seem important, big.  I think my favorite column was one she wrote about her mother and her obsession with leftovers and not wasting anything.  So many of her comments reminded me of my own grandmother and her obsession with filling her doggy bag with the remnants of the bread basket.  Mary Schmich's column captures this essence of someone who has lived through the Great Depression perfectly.

Here is the column in its entirety.  Enjoy!

My mother's motto: You are what you reheat By Mary Schmich, August 27, 2004

 Millions of words have been written about the difference between the so-called greatest generation and we wimps who have followed, but after a recent visit from my mother I realize that one aspect of the gap has not been fully addressed:

Leftovers.

To my mother, a refrigerator packed with leftovers is a Goodwill of edibles, a place where second-hand meals unwanted by the persnickety are thrilling to those with more generous attitudes toward food.

To put it another way, reaching into my refrigerator when my mother's in town--or into hers when I'm visiting--is like diving for hidden treasure, only the treasure is apt to be borderline moldy and the only sparkle comes from the tinfoil wrapping.

During any visit from my mother, and for a while after she leaves, I'm apt to reach into the fridge and wonder: What's this? Ah, a foil-covered coffee cup containing five spoonfuls of leftover canned vegetable soup. It wasn't good to begin with. It has not improved with age. But my mother couldn't stand to see it go to waste.

And this? Oh, that's right. It's half a cup of rice Mama scraped off her dinner plate, with a few specks of other food collected in the harvest.

Lifting a piece of foil from a bowl, I recall the conversation that led to the preservation of its contents.

"Honey," my mother had said as I headed toward the disposal with the salad. "Don't throw that away."

"Mother, it's three leaves of greasy, soggy lettuce and one really sorry-looking cherry tomato."

"I'll eat it for breakfast."

"Breakfast? Breakfast is for cereal. Eggs. Scones. Fresh food for a new day."

She had beamed a maternal smile, the kind suggesting that one day when I grew up, I'd understand. "Breakfast is whatever you make it."

That's a beautiful philosophy as applied to life, but some things are hard to stomach at 7 a.m.

Obviously, lovers of leftovers are of all ages, races and creeds, and saving leftovers is the proper thing to do. But I'm talking about the radicals, people who not only save every uneaten molecule of every meal but later eat every last one. And even though we live in an age of sophisticated, disposable, zipping, locking products designed to conserve leftovers, those radicals are likelier to belong to my mother's generation.

Like many people I know, I often forget leftovers I've saved. Until my mother visits.

"Mother, what are you eating?" I'll say when I discover her at some lunch she has rustled up on her own.

"I found this in your refrigerator."

"Oh my God. That's been there for weeks. Doesn't that look a little blue-green to you?"

"It doesn't smell bad. Would you like some?"

My mother also goes to restaurants primarily to hijack leftovers. To her, a restaurant is not a place to eat a meal; it's a place to stock up on future meals. No sooner has the waiter set the plate on the table than she exclaims, "Oh, I am going to have some good leftovers!"

She often leaves with a box containing the leftovers of everyone at the table, as well as the remains of the bread basket. She also likes to stuff her pockets with packets of Sweet'n Low and butter.

"But it's free," she'll say when I note that her jacket is bulging with contraband as we leave.

In truth, I admire that she doesn't take food for granted, and I once asked her to speculate on her passion for saving and consuming food others would deem past its prime. Was it having lived through the Great Depression? World War II?

Maybe, she said, but it was also the result of raising eight kids. She wouldn't eat until we were done, and then she would settle for whatever was on our plates.

She's left town now, and my refrigerator is looking a little less mysterious. But when I tossed out a moldy bread end the other day, I couldn't help a flush of shame as I heard her voice, kind and reasonable: "Honey, that would still be good if you just trimmed the edges."

Source: http://blogs.chicagotribune.com/news_columnists_ezorn/2010/07/mefs.html