I want my own holiday. Now that Mother’s Day is approaching, I realize those of us without children will never receive flowers or a card, birthdays notwithstanding, unless we take matters into our own hands and declare our own special day, Motherfucker’s Day. In all likelihood, I will never be a mother to anyone, but I will always be a motherfucker to someone.
First things first: a date to celebrate. Let bona fide mothers have the whole month of May. Let dads have June. How about raising a glass to motherfuckerhood in July? Let’s not interfere with Independence Day on the 4th or Bastille Day on the 14th. How about July 28? The weather in the Pacific Northwest is usually so lovely by month’s end.
Now onto the most important part: how to celebrate the cherished motherfuckers in your life. A proper holiday needs a food tradition whether it’s a Christmas Yule Log or a Burns Day sheep stomach pudding washed down with a wee dram. Holiday foods are sometimes symbolic, like the seder plate served during Passover. But tastiness seems more important than symbolic value, particularly given the secular nature of this new holiday. I propose rhubarb pie.
“Happy Motherfuckers Day, Nance! I baked you a rhubarb pie!”
“Are you muthahfuckin’ serious?” I reply. “How festive! Let’s go eat pie outside.”
It seems the best way to celebrate any holiday is outside. And if the sun is shining, what motherfucker doesn’t want to bask outside, plying lines: a crack to jam, a trail to shred, a slot to drop. Cast aside work and all trappings of responsibility. Something tells me that shouldn’t be too difficult. Call it motherfucker’s intuition.