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“It may or may not look like a five-year-old did it,” I admitted. As much as I hated it, I didn’t have my mother’s creative side when it came to art. “But it is bright and colorful.”
“Five-year-olds are wonderfully creative. When you were five, you once got into some of my acrylic paints and went to town on your bedroom wall. Making a flower garden, you said. Of course, it did come out looking remarkably like several pink and red vulvas, which took some explaining to the landlord at the time, but it was very well done.”
“I did not,” I said, cringing a bit at the idea.
“You sure did, honey. Of course, this was also around the time of development when you were very curious about your own anatomy, and I had bought you that book about the many different kinds of vulvas to help you understand and accept all the wonderful varieties of female anatomy.”
Yes.
My mother was the kind of mom who bought me vulva books.
There was also a breast book.
And, a little later, a penis book.
My mother was extremely open about human anatomy and body acceptance.
“Was there any more inappropriate art I don’t know about from my childhood?” I asked.
“There was nothing inappropriate about it,” she insisted. “Oh, you once decorated a surfboard for a friend of mine at the time. You said it was a tree. It looked quite a bit like an erect penis with ejaculate spouting out of it.”
“Oh, God,” I groaned, feeling my cheeks heat at the idea.
“You were three, if that helps,” she said, looking up at me with a big, beaming smile.
My smile was my favorite thing on my whole body.
Mostly because it washersmile.
Sunshine Vanjoy smiled with her whole face, with her whole soul. She didn’t know how to offer a half smile or a forced one.
We looked a lot alike in general. The long blonde hair, though hers was wavy and mine tended to be more straight. The feminine faces. The eye shape. She was a little leaner than I was, thanks to a lifetime of intense yoga and less of a sweet tooth than I had.
The biggest difference were our eyes.
My mom had big stormy blue ones.
Mine were green.
A gift from my father, it seemed.
“So, what is the special today?” I asked, glancing around and seeing most of the usuals already cooling. Muffins, mini crumb cakes, cinnamon rolls, and apple turnovers.
“Pecan maple danish,” she told me.
“Oh, I haven’t had that in so long.”
In fact, repeated foods were a rarity in my life thanks to the fact that she was a bottomless pit of recipes, so very few things were made more than every few months.
“That is why I made you your own to take home,” she said, waving toward the oven where three long danishes were cooling.
“You are a saint among women,” I told her. “What do you need help with?”
“Well, why don’t you go get yourself some coffee. It’s fresh. Then you can help me slice up some potatoes.”
That was what we did, talking all the while about the new fliers she was drawing up for us to take around the closest towns, leaving in whatever locations would allow us.
See… The Brunch Bar had to succeed.
