Free Cooking as Fast as I Can by Cat Cora Page A

around my birthday,hoping to be in touch with me. My mom then wrote my birth mother a letter, telling her in general terms about my upbringing, how she was a nurse and my father was a teacher, and how I was a good student and fine athlete. Not strictly true, but my mom was generally proud of me. My birth mother wrote right back and said she was married with two kids, and that whenever I was ready she would love to meet me. It turned out that she was also a registered nurse, just like Mom.
    On the night of my birthday dinner we stuffed ourselves with kota kapama and Alma’s cheesecake. It being my birthday, I went for that second slice. I remember my mom going from room to room opening windows, letting in the smell of spring. The dogwoods were blooming, as well as the saucer magnolias with their fragrance of overripe citrus.
    She returned from the other room with a stack of letters. “Cathy,” she said, “when you had those questions about your birth mom awhile back we contacted her. I kept a copy of what I wrote, and here’s what she wrote back. Also, we thought you should know that she called and wanted to meet you when you turned eighteen, but we felt it was too soon.”
    â€œToo soon? I was eighteen! A legal adult.” I felt a swirl of conflicting emotions at the thought of meeting the woman who gave birth to me, but my kneejerk response was to get het up and offended. I was irked that Mom and Dad contacted her and hadn’t told me. “You were coping with a lot of serious issues then,” said my mom. “Adding another issue to the mix was the last thing you needed then. When she called asking again last week, we thought it was time. If you want to meet her it’s okay with us. We’re with you all the way.”
    Along with the recent letters was a stack of envelopes. Every year on my birthday, Joanne—my birth mother—had writtento the home, asking after me, and these were those letters. I took each one out of its white envelope and read it. The same handwriting, year after year, wondering the same thing: How was I doing? Was I healthy? Happy? Well loved? I was a little teary-eyed. I felt both stunned and special. All these letters. I marveled at her determination and suspected I inherited my penchant for stubborn loyalty from her, for which I suddenly felt unaccountably grateful.
    The next morning, while my dad was getting ready to leave for work and my mom was scrambling up some eggs, I told her I wanted to call my birth mother. Right that minute. She slid the eggs onto a plate, picked up the phone, and made the call. A week later my parents, Grandmom, and I were on our way to the Mississippi Children’s Home to meet Joanne. I was so eager to lay eyes on the woman who’d given me life.

    A social worker greeted us in the waiting area. She put my mom, dad, and Alma in one room and me in another. There, the social worker and I waited for my birth mother. I believe I would have been more nervous if it hadn’t been so surreal. I had a mother and father whom I loved beyond measure, and yet now I would have another mother, one whose DNA I shared. The door opened and Joanne walked in, and we fell into each other’s arms. The Coras were tall people—Dad is six feet and my mom is five eight. I’m five two, and Joanne was petite like me. I looked so much like her. She had fine, dark features and small hands that I recognized. The nail beds, the tapering fingers, all like mine. Years later, after we’d spent some time together, we would marvel at all the mannerisms we shared, the way we gestured when we talked and the way we laughed.
    We hugged until it got awkward, then both laughed and blotted the tears from our eyes.
    The social worker sat on a metal chair off to the side. She was there to help facilitate the conversation, but her services were unnecessary. We talked easily, and Joanne had twenty-plus years’ worth of things to tell