“Rick! Careful! Those pots are hot! The last thing we need is for you to get scalded!”

Such is how Mom would typically greet me when I “bounded,” as she claimed, into the kitchen. Perhaps I was walking rather quickly, but when those incredible aromas wafted through the house, I just had to get to the source.

Even though Mom worked full-time, when berries were in season she could often be found in the kitchen baking pies and making preserves. Which gave me the chance to spend some real time with her.

It was a heck of an operation. Mom would have large pots boiling on the stove as she sterilized Mason jars and melted paraffin. Strewn all over the kitchen counters were bowls filled with raspberries and blueberries. Cutting boards would be piled high with sliced apples and peaches. And the breakfast table was covered in wax paper, so that Mom could roll out the piecrust dough.

She always wore a white apron. Flour on her forehead and chin betrayed where she had rubbed her face, and berry stains covered the front of her apron. I would stand and watch her move with catlike precision from one end of the kitchen to the other: preparing the berries and fruit, rolling the dough, checking on the Mason jars, and ensuring the paraffin was doing whatever paraffin does.

Even while conducting this chaotic symphony, Mom would always find a way to talk with me. Most often we found ourselves alone, with Dad and Jeff otherwise occupied or simply avoiding the kitchen. But I relished these times. She and I talked about anything and everything. I would sit there and listen contentedly while swiping berries at will.

Mom would sometimes tell me about her being a tomboy. That she didn’t play with the other girls much when she was little, and didn’t like playing with dolls or having tea parties. She preferred playing tag, climbing trees, and going fishing. Things the boys did.

Once, she stopped in the middle of cutting up an apple, a thought having hit her. She smiled and told me about the time she went to see Tarzan. After the movie, she and her friends went to the park and began playing the jungle warrior, climbing trees and swinging from one branch to another. Mom climbed one of the taller trees and leaped toward a branch that was just out of her reach. She plunged to the ground and broke her arm in the fall, and had to wear a cast for the rest of the summer.

I could relate.

Besides her adventures, Mom also let me know that life at her childhood home wasn’t always pleasant. She never went into much detail, but she did give me a glimpse. She told me that her mom did not brook bad manners. That when you sat at the table, your left hand had better be in your lap while you used your fork with your right, except when you had to use your knife. And once, after being warned several times about putting her elbow on the table, her mother had tied her left arm to the chair. I was glad that practice wasn’t continued in our home.

Another time, she refused to eat her Brussels sprouts. Her mother ordered her to stay at the table until she did. It wasn’t until the middle of the night that she was finally excused to her room. In the morning, they were again put on her plate. I imagine this might be the reason Mom never served Brussels sprouts in our house.

Mom also used these opportunities to tell me a little about my dad. He did not talk about growing up, and whenever such personal matters came up, he always seemed to change the subject. But through Mom, I learned that Dad’s father had died when he was young. He and his older brother, my Uncle Jerry, had to support his family during the Great Depression. My dad sold newspapers as a young child in Brooklyn, and later, shoes. He continued to support his mom while he went to college and law school.

Mom smiled as she related that Dad once raised and flew pigeons, often sending them up to lure other flocks to his coop. I recall asking her, “But wasn’t that really stealing?” She laughed. “I suppose so, in a way. Might explain why your dad went to law school.” Then she got quite serious. “Your father may put up with a lot, but he does not tolerate stealing, lying, or hurting others. Especially those who cannot protect or defend themselves.”

I would be remiss if I did not point out that during the entire time Mom was talking to me and baking, she smoked. That’s right, she smoked cigarettes, and not just any kind, either: unfiltered Chesterfields. She smoked almost two packs a day, and in almost all my recollections of her I can still see a cigarette in her hand, just like most of her generation. After all, “nine out of ten doctors” approved (at least in magazine ads), and countless Hollywood greats did it, too.

Even my dad smoked—but I never knew it until my wife and I saw him smoking at our wedding reception. He apparently only smoked at the office and never at home. I now have a better understanding of why he could always be found chewing Chiclets gum.

Sometimes, Mom used those occasions in the kitchen to share her thoughts on matters she felt were simply important for me to know. She would, for example, talk about the importance of always being truthful, and of understanding that girls and women were my equals. She would say that trust would form the foundation of every relationship I would ever have, and that only by working in partnership would any of my relationships flourish and grow. This was an issue of great import to her, and to my dad. She got no argument from me. Watching how my parents interacted and supported each other, it just made sense.

Taking that conversation a step further, Mom also never failed to let me know how I must never, and I do mean never, do anything after a woman said “no.” At this point in the conversation, I would raise my hands and plead that I understood, then try my best to change the subject.

These sessions had one other benefit, and a nearly miraculous one at that: they actually managed to convey to me the importance of math and science. Who cared about fractions or chemical compounds, anyway? No matter how often my teachers tried to explain why I should, I would simply tune out. But after watching what Mom had to do to make those incredibly delicious pies and preserves, I finally understood.

Eric’s book, from which this is a chapter, is “Life at 12 College Road.”