A Recipe for Growth with a Hot-Oven Temper

My mother’s hands smelled like bread dough.

It was a Saturday—one of the few days I spent at home. My mother wasn’t working, and I wasn’t at school for after-school care or at someone else’s house. I snuggled up in a ball in front of the TV to watch reruns of my favorite cartoons. She sank next to me on our red velvet couch, her shirt covered in flour, and rested while she changed the channel. The repeat of some novela, or Spanish soap opera, played in the background. In between the sobs of the villainous character, she grimaced. I’d mirror her expression.

After the end credits scrolled montages of the novela’s scenes to a Tejano song, I watched her make her way back into the kitchen. The theme song of the next novela began. My eyes stayed on her as she grasped the dough and kneaded it into submission. She carefully placed her formed dough balls onto a baking sheet.

She beckoned me off of the couch to open the oven and take out all of our pans. Like most Latinx children, I responded with “mande” or “send me,” a version of I’m coming. It didn’t matter if I was willing or not—I answered.

Ovens, for us at least, served as a multi-use item— baking and storage. I did as she ordered, painstakingly taking out every dented pot and skillet, placing them on our counter. The oven knob turned. We waited.

What fascinated me about watching her bake was that it was all guesswork. This woman, whose temper lit up like the flame of our gas oven, came from an undereducated and impoverished background. Instead of learning to read, she tended to her younger siblings. She raised babies while she was still a baby. Trauma educated her.

But recipes? They’re stories told among friends, cousins, and aunts over a game of Loteria. Tía Chucha said that you add about a teacup of sugar, five fistfuls of flour, oh, and watch it for about a half-hour.

In the kitchen now, I watched—but then I stood in her way.

Gentle was not an ingredient she used.

I backed out of the kitchen but still gazed.
The loaves rose.
The smell of her hands wafted through our tiny apartment.

***

I rubbed my eyes. The frustration weighed as much as a cello case full of rocks. “Why won’t he just listen?” I let out hot exhales. Anti-yoga breathing.

No parenting book prepared me for when children learn how to use the word should as wordplay. I didn’t mean you had a choice—should was meant as a command. You should play cello means play it, now. You shouldn’t wait until your race is over to turn off your Nintendo. Now means while you’re still nine, and I cut your sandwiches into triangles, and you still have a bedtime, and you will listen. Where’s the “mande” response I used to give? The one I now expect?

My back slid against the wall in our family den, away from his cello practicing room, equipped with a treadmill and craft supplies. You know, in case he gets an itch to make a macaroni necklace or go on a walk. I want my kids to be well-rounded.

In my head, I go through which lecture I’m going to expound on in my mental compendium of Parental Head Discussions by Neidy Hess, Ph.D.—a title I think I deserve after my years of parental research. But instead of approaching like a teacher, my ardent temper turned on like an old gas oven.

I walked into our multi-use practice room and yelled. Loud. Didn’t quite nail the dissertation.

Hot tears scorched both of our faces, and we stared at each other in silence. My husband’s thundering steps approached from down the hallway into the room. His hard stare landed on me. He sent away our son and our young cellist resigned to another part of our house.

“So... what happened?”

I rattled off my justified reasons—I defended my dissertation. I used argument and logic as boxing gloves aimed toward my husband. But instead of joining in on the fight, his hard stare softened. He gently placed his hands on my tense shoulders.

“There’s a better way, you know. You could try apologizing. It’s what Mom would say.”

Me? Apologize? For what exactly?

But the conviction already created knots in my stomach. My husband spoke truthfully—I should have never lost my cool. My words were full of unintended force. There was a better way, even if I didn’t know how to do it.

***

My phone rang. My husband worked long hours as a paramedic but has never called at the end of his shift. “We transported a Covid patient. I’m changing in the garage.” It was the beginning of making difficult choices.

For us, that meant we no longer had our weekly visits with my in-laws who lived across town. Their safety was our priority.

The first time we told our children we couldn’t go to grandma’s house, the following question was always, “Are we going next week?” They didn’t know they weren’t the only ones asking.

Six months later, I sat in my aging gold minivan’s passenger seat and admired their delightfully gray house. Previously, cars, laughter, and goofiness filled the driveway. We celebrated birthdays almost every week, someone almost always brought over a new baby, and desserts covered the kitchen counter as if it were the Willy Wonka Factory. The saying “the more, the merrier” rings true when your husband is one of ten children. I was more, and they merrily invited me into their family.

I covered my face with my floral mask and wondered if it would be safe—not just for them but for me as well. Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder; it makes it weary. I unclicked my seatbelt. My homesickness needed a cure.

My car door echoed a creak that the front door made—my children made it there faster than I could say pandemic. Home, again.

“Hi, hi!” My mom-in-law’s double-greeting always sounds like a double-welcome. I made my way up the stairs of her split-level home and saw my mother-in-law spin away from her computer chair. I smiled. I don’t greet her like many others greet their mothers-in-law. We’ve experienced things akin to Ruth and Naomi—she gladly took me in even though I was a foreigner. Our hug reflected that history, even with our faces covered. We walked into her kitchen towards the fridge and discussed all the things that changed. We caught up on my mom-in-law’s 6th run-through of The Office, Dr. Who, and Parks and Rec while we took out deli meat, tomatoes, lettuce, and condiments. Laughter sprinkled our hoagie preparation.

I missed this.

But she’s more than someone who recaps all of her favorite TV shows. She’s the one I called for a recap on parenting. I asked for all of her reruns on potty training, schooling, raising kind boys, and meeting little girls’ emotional needs. She met my emotional needs, too—but after a challenging year, I needed more. My temper has ignited more often than I wanted, like an old gas oven I knew well. I took a deep breath. I mustered the courage to ask.

“Mom, I’m thinking about counseling.”

“Oh! I’ll ask my counselor! I’ll let you know tomorrow and see who she recommends.”

***

Emails are the way my Mom-in-law and I connect. She signs with a little heart after her message. More often than not, it’s usually a recipe I asked for. Monkey bread? Punctuated with “Enjoy!” and her little heart. Chicken and Dumplings? “Found it!” Insert little heart.

I ask for help. She responds. But it’s different when you ask for a recommendation for a therapist. “Enjoy!” plus the little heart just seems... odd?

But it’s an act of brazen courage when women of this kind share their weaknesses. A mother-in-law who is aware of where she has blind spots? And then shares?

“Hi Dear!

I asked my counselor about a recommendation for you, and she sent this. I have no doubt that she would be amazing, but only you would be able to tell if she is who you personally need!”

Insert little heart.

She passed the torch in the form of an email.

***

My past is filled with the stories and recipes for making a challenging season into one of growth. My mother taught me this well—the aroma of her work fills my life. Without a recipe to follow, she kneaded her difficulties into something not just edible, but delicious.

Now I’m ready to create my own recipe for thriving. My single mother armed me with her strength and power. But grace was displayed for me by a mom gifted to me by marriage. It’s up to me to see what I make of it, what recipe I will pass on to my children.

Guest essay written by Neidy Hess. Neidy (pronounced nay-dee) is a Mexican-Guatemalan creative with a love of Georgia peaches, sweet tea, and cold brew on tap. She currently lives on the Iowa side of the Omaha metro with her three incredible niños and firefighter-paramedic husband. After navigating life as a military spouse, she now works at her church as the lead big kid who loves the gospel, otherwise known as the children's curriculum coordinator, and the Exhale content manager. You can find her on Instagram or every month in her newsletter.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.