What, exactly, does a QueenPrincess say?
This blog was originally called "MoJo's Kitchen." I began writing for this blog shortly after my mother died in the summer of 2009. She's right up there on the left in that fabulous 50's dress, holding the birthday cake. It's 1957 in that picture and my mother is either turning 18 years old or graduating from high school. I miss her every single day.
I began this blog to chronicle a journey toward health. This journey would help me harness all of the knowledge my mother passed on to me about how to cook in order to heal my own body, mind and heart. It turns out, this journey will last as long as I do. Health is not an end-point, it is a practice. Health is the journey itself.
But health is not just about eating right and exercising. Health is about having what business guru, Napoleon Hill, and later, my brother Mitchell would call, "a positive mental attitude." Health is about happiness. Health is about openness and freedom and family and balancing responsibility with fun. Health is not (only) the numbers my doctor gives me after a blood test, it is how often I spend time laughing with my kids and how happy it makes me to go for a hike with my dog.
This blog began as a journey to keep my mother as close to me as possible for as long as possible. She is still with me. She is always with me. But it's time to stop hanging out in her kitchen all the time. It's time, now, to talk around my own kitchen table for a little while.
Why the Kitchen Table? The kitchen is where everyone wants to hang out at the party even if it's minuscule and horribly cramped compared to the spacious living room. The kitchen table is where you sit talking with a handful of family members, sharing good memories and tears, late into the evening after someone you love has died. Our family holds family meetings around the kitchen table. My kids do their homework at the kitchen table. The kitchen table is just where everything happens.
And why (oh why?) QueenPrincess? QueenPrincess is my superhero alter-ego. She is part Mermaid, part Bear, part Dragon and part Wolf. She is on a mission to practice health every day. QueenPrincess is the voice in my head that I should listen to, always (and not that other voice that's always trying to bring me down -- you know, that inner critic jerk). QueenPrincess has the authority of a "Queen of nowhere" and a "Princess of refusing to feel shame or grow up completely." Sometimes she just has something she needs to say. And for those times, there is "Queen Princess says..."
Thank you for reading,
Namaste
This blog was originally called "MoJo's Kitchen." I began writing for this blog shortly after my mother died in the summer of 2009. She's right up there on the left in that fabulous 50's dress, holding the birthday cake. It's 1957 in that picture and my mother is either turning 18 years old or graduating from high school. I miss her every single day.
I began this blog to chronicle a journey toward health. This journey would help me harness all of the knowledge my mother passed on to me about how to cook in order to heal my own body, mind and heart. It turns out, this journey will last as long as I do. Health is not an end-point, it is a practice. Health is the journey itself.
But health is not just about eating right and exercising. Health is about having what business guru, Napoleon Hill, and later, my brother Mitchell would call, "a positive mental attitude." Health is about happiness. Health is about openness and freedom and family and balancing responsibility with fun. Health is not (only) the numbers my doctor gives me after a blood test, it is how often I spend time laughing with my kids and how happy it makes me to go for a hike with my dog.
This blog began as a journey to keep my mother as close to me as possible for as long as possible. She is still with me. She is always with me. But it's time to stop hanging out in her kitchen all the time. It's time, now, to talk around my own kitchen table for a little while.
Why the Kitchen Table? The kitchen is where everyone wants to hang out at the party even if it's minuscule and horribly cramped compared to the spacious living room. The kitchen table is where you sit talking with a handful of family members, sharing good memories and tears, late into the evening after someone you love has died. Our family holds family meetings around the kitchen table. My kids do their homework at the kitchen table. The kitchen table is just where everything happens.
And why (oh why?) QueenPrincess? QueenPrincess is my superhero alter-ego. She is part Mermaid, part Bear, part Dragon and part Wolf. She is on a mission to practice health every day. QueenPrincess is the voice in my head that I should listen to, always (and not that other voice that's always trying to bring me down -- you know, that inner critic jerk). QueenPrincess has the authority of a "Queen of nowhere" and a "Princess of refusing to feel shame or grow up completely." Sometimes she just has something she needs to say. And for those times, there is "Queen Princess says..."
Thank you for reading,
Namaste
This is the original description of "MoJo's Kitchen" (the former name of this blog):
"After a good dinner,
one can forgive anybody,
even one's own relations."
-Oscar Wilde
Ramona Stevenson (aka “Mona,”aka “Mo”) was my mother. Most of her friends called her “Mona” and my dad and her sister’s called her “Mo.”
I think I also remember her father (my Grandpa Bud) calling her “Mo.” My brother Mitch started the (to her) annoying habit of calling her “Ramona” and several of us other kids (there were six of us) picked up on this, to her chagrin. Eventually, she got used to it.
I’m JodiAnn Stevenson (aka“Jodi,” aka “Josephine,” aka “JoJo,” aka “Jo”). I was known by my family and friends as “Jodi” my entire life until I pretentiously insisted everyone start calling me “JodiAnn” somewhere around 9th or 10th grade because I had recently discovered my birth certificate and realized that JodiAnn is actually my true name. My mother named me after both of her sisters and her mother (JOanna, DIana, and ANita – she put them together to make my name, she told me) and I loved that and I love telling that story and so I still (most of the time)pretentiously insist that everyone call me by my full name, JodiAnn. My mother always called me “Josephine” for some reason. My father called me “JoJo” until I was in my late twenties. No one calls me “Jo” because that’s my Aunt’s name (my mother’s sister) – Aunt Jo – but for the purposes of this blog, that’s my nickname.
Mo, my mother, was born in 1939 in Detroit where she was also raised. I was born in 1973 in Traverse City, Michigan and was raised on the shores of Lake Michigan in a small town called Frankfort part time and the other part of the time in the vast suburbs of Detroit.
My mother was obsessed with food and she was an extraordinary cook. The supreme old-world matriarch, she was the master of her kitchen and the master of any family member’s kitchen that she happened to be visiting. Following that same old archetype, her day began with cooking breakfast for everyone who happened to be in her house at the time. Sometimes that was just her and my father. Sometimes that was “all of us” which means about 30 people (siblings, grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins, boyfriends, girlfriends, good friends, etc…). As soon as she was done cooking breakfast, she began thinking about what she would cook for lunch (even while she was eating her own breakfast) and as soon as she was done cooking lunch, she began thinking about what was for dinner. Dinnertime was the time to talk about what we’d eat the next day. When “all of us” were home and it was a special occasion like Thanksgiving, there would also be snacks available all day long. Sometimes (especially at holidays) it seemed like food was the center of our family’s universe. Okay, food and euchre (and, okay, maybe some spirits here and there – but, as she would say, “for medicinal purposes only” –ya gotta have something to aid digestion after all that eating).
Everyone who knew and loved my mother loved her cooking, felt loved, I think, by her cooking. At best, my mother’s obsession with food was an obsession with demonstrating her deep love for her family and friends. This is how my mother taught me to cook; with love.
Unfortunately, my mother died at the age of 70 from a heart attack. Though there is no absolute reason for her to have had this heart attack, her weight, stress-level and sedentary lifestyle probably all played a huge role. At worst, my mother’s obsession with food was self-defeating.
She was an emotional eater. So, she was not proud of her food obsession. In fact, it caused her shame. She associated her food obsession with her weight and with “being bad.” While those of us that loved her craved her love through food, she struggled inwardly with how to continue to give that love and yet love herself enough to eat healthfully. This is how my mother taught me to eat; with shame. She didn’t mean to teach me this. It was one of those monkey-see, monkey-do lessons. She loved me. She was full of love. She never would’ve wanted me or any of my brothers or my sister or my nieces and nephews to feel ashamed of ourselves. All she ever wanted for any of us was love.
When my mother died, I learned just how deeply her obsession with food went. Reading through her journals and looking through her vast collection of cookbooks and clipped recipes, I learned that she studied healthy cooking as if she were working toward her doctorate in the subject. I learned that though she “gave up chocolate” for the last twenty years of her life, she longed for it through clipping recipes for chocolate cakes, chocolate puddings, chocolate mousses, chocolate cookies, chocolate sauces, and on and on…. I learned that though she was obsessed with food and with cooking, she never embraced her obsession as the very tool that could heal her body and soul and give her the peace she longed for.
My mother and I never talked about opening a restaurant together when she was alive though I do remember encouraging her when I was a teenager to open her own restaurant. And I remember that suggestion being thrown around the dinner table more than a few times. I remember someone saying that it should be called “Mama’s” or “Mona’s.” The thought of a storefront and a sign with the name “Mama’s” in huge cursive letters and my mother standing out front with one of her enormous ear-to-ear smiles across her face and an apron on is a kind of fantasy photograph I’ve looked at over and over again in my mind.
My mother passed her obsession with food and cooking on to me and I am so grateful. Despite what our thinness-obsessed culture would have us believe, food is a great pleasure, a great source of healing and good food, real food is a great gift. Knowing how to cook gives me the tools I need to harness all of this goodness and cook and eat with love, healthfully and pleasurably. I have her to thank for this amazing gift.
I love my mother. Though I told her every single time I talked to her that I did, I never told her enough. Though I was with her as often as I thought I could be when she was alive, I never had enough time with her. MoJo’s Kitchen is a fantasy restaurant where my mother and I get to spend all the time in the world together, in the kitchen, cooking with pleasure, tasting each other’s inventions, nibbling from the cutting board, cutting a rainbow of beautiful vegetables, kneading dough, mixing ingredients, etc…. I imagine dancing around the kitchen to “runaround sue” or “kiss” by Prince – two songs I’ve actually seen my mother dance to, in the kitchen, on multiple occasions. When we don’t have the radio on, she’s singing old torch songs – the same her father once sang to her. My mother had a beautiful singing voice.
I have collected all of my mother’s cookbooks and clipped recipes and I am choosing the healthiest, most delicious ones to make with her and to serve to you in MoJo’s kitchen. Sometimes deliciousness is going to trump low-calorie, low-fatness in MoJo’s kitchen. Sometimes a particular recipe will just have to be shared because it’s tradition (and one of my family members is demanding it).
And in the front of MoJo’s Kitchen, where you’re standing, you can hear my Mother and I singing or maybe you can hear us laughing and we are cooking something delicious and healthy for you, with love, so that you can sit down and eat it, with love. And while you’re eating you can hear all of our old stories about food and family and euchre and spirits (“for medicinal purposes only”) and love.
My mother ended every letter she ever wrote to me or card she ever gave to me with “Vaya Con Dios.” When you leave MoJo’s Kitchen, you’ll
hear her say the same to you. My mother had a simple view of Dios: God is Love. Period. It seems to me that even if you don’t believe in a god, you can believe in Love. Once my mother told me that she believed heaven was simply being remembered well by the people you loved. Simple. MoJo’s kitchen is a little slice of that heaven.
Vaya Con Dios!
"After a good dinner,
one can forgive anybody,
even one's own relations."
-Oscar Wilde
Ramona Stevenson (aka “Mona,”aka “Mo”) was my mother. Most of her friends called her “Mona” and my dad and her sister’s called her “Mo.”
I think I also remember her father (my Grandpa Bud) calling her “Mo.” My brother Mitch started the (to her) annoying habit of calling her “Ramona” and several of us other kids (there were six of us) picked up on this, to her chagrin. Eventually, she got used to it.
I’m JodiAnn Stevenson (aka“Jodi,” aka “Josephine,” aka “JoJo,” aka “Jo”). I was known by my family and friends as “Jodi” my entire life until I pretentiously insisted everyone start calling me “JodiAnn” somewhere around 9th or 10th grade because I had recently discovered my birth certificate and realized that JodiAnn is actually my true name. My mother named me after both of her sisters and her mother (JOanna, DIana, and ANita – she put them together to make my name, she told me) and I loved that and I love telling that story and so I still (most of the time)pretentiously insist that everyone call me by my full name, JodiAnn. My mother always called me “Josephine” for some reason. My father called me “JoJo” until I was in my late twenties. No one calls me “Jo” because that’s my Aunt’s name (my mother’s sister) – Aunt Jo – but for the purposes of this blog, that’s my nickname.
Mo, my mother, was born in 1939 in Detroit where she was also raised. I was born in 1973 in Traverse City, Michigan and was raised on the shores of Lake Michigan in a small town called Frankfort part time and the other part of the time in the vast suburbs of Detroit.
My mother was obsessed with food and she was an extraordinary cook. The supreme old-world matriarch, she was the master of her kitchen and the master of any family member’s kitchen that she happened to be visiting. Following that same old archetype, her day began with cooking breakfast for everyone who happened to be in her house at the time. Sometimes that was just her and my father. Sometimes that was “all of us” which means about 30 people (siblings, grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins, boyfriends, girlfriends, good friends, etc…). As soon as she was done cooking breakfast, she began thinking about what she would cook for lunch (even while she was eating her own breakfast) and as soon as she was done cooking lunch, she began thinking about what was for dinner. Dinnertime was the time to talk about what we’d eat the next day. When “all of us” were home and it was a special occasion like Thanksgiving, there would also be snacks available all day long. Sometimes (especially at holidays) it seemed like food was the center of our family’s universe. Okay, food and euchre (and, okay, maybe some spirits here and there – but, as she would say, “for medicinal purposes only” –ya gotta have something to aid digestion after all that eating).
Everyone who knew and loved my mother loved her cooking, felt loved, I think, by her cooking. At best, my mother’s obsession with food was an obsession with demonstrating her deep love for her family and friends. This is how my mother taught me to cook; with love.
Unfortunately, my mother died at the age of 70 from a heart attack. Though there is no absolute reason for her to have had this heart attack, her weight, stress-level and sedentary lifestyle probably all played a huge role. At worst, my mother’s obsession with food was self-defeating.
She was an emotional eater. So, she was not proud of her food obsession. In fact, it caused her shame. She associated her food obsession with her weight and with “being bad.” While those of us that loved her craved her love through food, she struggled inwardly with how to continue to give that love and yet love herself enough to eat healthfully. This is how my mother taught me to eat; with shame. She didn’t mean to teach me this. It was one of those monkey-see, monkey-do lessons. She loved me. She was full of love. She never would’ve wanted me or any of my brothers or my sister or my nieces and nephews to feel ashamed of ourselves. All she ever wanted for any of us was love.
When my mother died, I learned just how deeply her obsession with food went. Reading through her journals and looking through her vast collection of cookbooks and clipped recipes, I learned that she studied healthy cooking as if she were working toward her doctorate in the subject. I learned that though she “gave up chocolate” for the last twenty years of her life, she longed for it through clipping recipes for chocolate cakes, chocolate puddings, chocolate mousses, chocolate cookies, chocolate sauces, and on and on…. I learned that though she was obsessed with food and with cooking, she never embraced her obsession as the very tool that could heal her body and soul and give her the peace she longed for.
My mother and I never talked about opening a restaurant together when she was alive though I do remember encouraging her when I was a teenager to open her own restaurant. And I remember that suggestion being thrown around the dinner table more than a few times. I remember someone saying that it should be called “Mama’s” or “Mona’s.” The thought of a storefront and a sign with the name “Mama’s” in huge cursive letters and my mother standing out front with one of her enormous ear-to-ear smiles across her face and an apron on is a kind of fantasy photograph I’ve looked at over and over again in my mind.
My mother passed her obsession with food and cooking on to me and I am so grateful. Despite what our thinness-obsessed culture would have us believe, food is a great pleasure, a great source of healing and good food, real food is a great gift. Knowing how to cook gives me the tools I need to harness all of this goodness and cook and eat with love, healthfully and pleasurably. I have her to thank for this amazing gift.
I love my mother. Though I told her every single time I talked to her that I did, I never told her enough. Though I was with her as often as I thought I could be when she was alive, I never had enough time with her. MoJo’s Kitchen is a fantasy restaurant where my mother and I get to spend all the time in the world together, in the kitchen, cooking with pleasure, tasting each other’s inventions, nibbling from the cutting board, cutting a rainbow of beautiful vegetables, kneading dough, mixing ingredients, etc…. I imagine dancing around the kitchen to “runaround sue” or “kiss” by Prince – two songs I’ve actually seen my mother dance to, in the kitchen, on multiple occasions. When we don’t have the radio on, she’s singing old torch songs – the same her father once sang to her. My mother had a beautiful singing voice.
I have collected all of my mother’s cookbooks and clipped recipes and I am choosing the healthiest, most delicious ones to make with her and to serve to you in MoJo’s kitchen. Sometimes deliciousness is going to trump low-calorie, low-fatness in MoJo’s kitchen. Sometimes a particular recipe will just have to be shared because it’s tradition (and one of my family members is demanding it).
And in the front of MoJo’s Kitchen, where you’re standing, you can hear my Mother and I singing or maybe you can hear us laughing and we are cooking something delicious and healthy for you, with love, so that you can sit down and eat it, with love. And while you’re eating you can hear all of our old stories about food and family and euchre and spirits (“for medicinal purposes only”) and love.
My mother ended every letter she ever wrote to me or card she ever gave to me with “Vaya Con Dios.” When you leave MoJo’s Kitchen, you’ll
hear her say the same to you. My mother had a simple view of Dios: God is Love. Period. It seems to me that even if you don’t believe in a god, you can believe in Love. Once my mother told me that she believed heaven was simply being remembered well by the people you loved. Simple. MoJo’s kitchen is a little slice of that heaven.
Vaya Con Dios!