A birthday and a shepherd’s pie.
My older brother turns sixty-something today. He’d prefer I not reveal the exact number in case anyone gets the notion he’s descended into Old Fart Hell for real this time. All the previous anniversaries of his birth were just a run-up to the latest celebration, which will take place tomorrow morning at the restaurant of his choice. He’ll probably want to visit one of the local Waffle House diners, home of hash browns scattered, smothered, covered, diced, greased, fried, dyed, and laid to the side.
To that menu item he’ll add eggs over-easy —make that two — plus whole wheat toast and a rasher of bacon, also known as a “wad” in these parts. What passes for “whole wheat” at this prime culinary destination actually is sliced bread made brown by some secret manufacturing process that I’d prefer remain unknown. So would they.
I grow a tad verklempt over birthdays, especially those of my students in the inner city high school where I teach. I get doubly weepy over children who are forced to grow too old, too fast. Like those who birth babies when they are children themselves. Those who have no roof over their heads or food in their bellies. Or those who are forced into breadwinner status when ailing parents can’t do the job themselves. Those kids sacrifice sleep, fall behind academically, and lose the waning moments of childhood through enforced servitude to adult woes. Their shoulders, which are still growing, buckle under the weight of cares too heavy for teenagers to lift.
I’m thinking in particular of one student whose name I shan’t reveal because it’s none of your business, and I could get sued if I did. Suffice it to say that there’s serious illness in her family, and this girl — mature above her years — is carrying the financial and emotional loads for everyone in her home. Hers is the only paycheck coming in, and while she’s been busy at her job, she’s fallen far, far behind in her school work. She was AWOL for weeks. When she returned to class, she had circles under her eyes big as croker sacks. She moves with the solemnity of the seriously fatigued. She eats lunch in my classroom with the rest of the group and works on her laptop while throwing out occasional comments on the state of things.
“I want a shepherd’s pie,” she said today. Her face registered the resignation of someone who knows that wanting and getting are two separate things. “I told my Mama I want one, but she isn’t able to do that just yet.”
“You mean with the cheese and potatoes on the top?” I want to make sure we’re both cooking with gas in this conversation.
“Yeah. Yeah, that thing. I might just make it myself if my Mama doesn’t get around to it soon.” Her mama’s been sick. Real sick. Like just getting over major surgery sick.
“I’ll make you a shepherd’s pie.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“You will?”
“I’ll bring it for you Monday.”
“Thank you, Ms. Sams. Thank you.” She smiles, the first genuine look of pleasure I’ve seen on this child’s face in a while.
“No problem. My pleasure.”
And it is my pleasure to show some motherly love to a girl who needs the care more than the food. If I could, I would bring her home to eat at my table, then wash up after the meal, prod her toward homework and a shower, proclaim bedtime and let her sleep between fresh sheets she didn’t have to wash and change herself.
For now, I’ll dig out my grandmother’s dogeared cookbook and find a homestyle recipe for shepherd’s pie — cheese, potatoes, and all.