Mother Mary Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Forza Mother Mary

May 25, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m turning into my mother.

But only in the weird ways.

Let’s begin with the ways I’m not turning into her.

I cannot make her tomato sauce.

Which honestly, we called gravy.

It’s a South Philly thing.

In my early books, I would write about gravy, and the copyeditor would replace it with tomato sauce, to which I would reply stet, which is bookspeak for back off.

Her gravy was unbelievable. It was rich, but not heavy, with incredible taste.

Never mind that she didn’t use a single fresh ingredient.

The tomatoes were canned, the paste was canned, and she added garlic salt and onion salt.

Nothing had to be washed or diced for her gravy.

Which is proof that it didn’t matter.

I guarantee this was the best gravy on the planet. We ate spaghetti in some form almost every night, whether it was regular pasta or her homemade gnocchis and ravioli, which were also out of this world, but the gravy made everything great.

You could put that gravy on cardboard and never stop eating.

I remember asking her what the recipe was, and she said, “You’re not getting it.” Which is pure Mother Mary.

I never thought to question it, because like all kids, I never imagined her dying.

But then she did, and of course I miss her, but you know what else I miss?

Correct.

So fast-forward to the rest of my life, when I try to make the gravy and fail miserably. Then I try a variety of jarred gravy that would make any card-carrying Italian-American shudder, but I do it anyway and I hit upon Rao’s.

Which is the closest to my mother’s but honestly, hers was even better.

So now I have pasta with an inferior gravy and think: “Mom, really?”

So fast-forward again to me in my dotage when I watch everything on Netflix, and for some reason I get hooked on Drive to Survive, which is all about F1 racing and I like it because I’ve always liked cars. And I’m lucky enough to be able to write about what interests me, so I find myself sneaking cars into my novels, then I find myself going to car events.

And last weekend I went to one and bought something my mother would’ve bought.

You may remember that Mother Mary always wore a lab coat.

She’s still the only person to have checked into a hospital in a lab coat.

She got them at the Dollar Store and she liked them because they had pockets for crossword puzzle and her cigarettes.

In any event, fast-forward to me, finding myself at an exotic car event and shopping at the stands where they sell shammy clothes and ceramic wax to more serious gearheads than I am, and I see a thing of beauty.

A Ferrari technician’s jacket.

It’s authentically Italian, and real Ferrari mechanics wear them when they work on real Ferraris.

I put it on, fell in love, and bought it, then realized it was a lab coat, only red.

The color of Ferraris.

And gravy.

It even has pockets on either side, for my cell phone and my dog treats.

So I can’t make the gravy, but now I have a gravy-colored lab coat.

Thanks, Mom.

Column Classic: Mother Mary Grounds 4000 Flights

April 20, 2025

by Lisa Scottoline

A column classic in honor of Mother Mary, who passed eleven years ago, but whose memory lives on. Thanks to all of you who continue to celebrate her and read about her.

I believe in science.

Except when it comes to Mother Mary.

I always think of her this time of year, because she passed away 5 years ago, on Palm Sunday.

Yes, I’m aware that the date of Palm Sunday moves, so that it’s not the actual day she passed, which was April 13. But it’s so Mother Mary to remember her on the holiday, and I’ll explain why.

She was only 4’11”, but her personality was ten times her size.

I love talking about her, which I just did, on book tour. I’m supposed to talk about my new book, Someone Knows, but I always end up telling funny stories about her, and oddly, they all involve the weather.

I tell the story about how she was the only person in South Florida who felt an earthquake that had occurred in Tampa, a fact proved by a call she had made to the Miami Herald to report same. When the TV newsvan went to her house, they called her Earthquake Mary.

Which she loved.

I tell a story about how I made her fly north to get out of the path of a hurricane, and when she was interviewed about it at the airport, she said, “I’m not afraid of a hurricane, I am a hurricane.”

I tell a story about the day of her memorial service, when it rained so hard that my entrance hall flooded, which has never happened before or since.

And then this Palm Sunday, she sent me another weather-related sign.

I was sitting on a plane in St. Louis and heading for Chicago, when we heard that there was a sudden snowstorm blowing into Chicago.

In the middle of April.

I know it snows a lot in Chicago, but not that much in April, and this storm was unexpected. My flight and others were delayed because the Chicago airport was putting a ground hold on all flights, so we sat on the plane and waited.

And waited.

It turned out that 4000 flights were canceled that day, and mine was one of them.

Unfortunately, I missed my book signing in Chicago.

My apologies.

And I thought of my mother, which is when I wondered if, in fact, that was what she’d wanted all along.

Mother Mary was the youngest of nineteen children, so we can guess she didn’t get much attention. Even now, I think she’s saying, Look at me.

Think of me.

Remember me.

Of course, I need no reminder, nor do you, to remember those you loved and lost.

Holidays are bittersweet for those who have lost people on or around them, but there’s a part of me that thinks Mother Mary likes being remembered on Palm Sunday.

An extraordinary day for an extraordinary woman.

She loved whenever Francesca and I wrote about her. You may remember when Philadelphia magazine published its Best of Philadelphia awards and gave Chick Wit an award. For Worst of Philadelphia.

Thanks, Philly mag.

I’m still laughing.

Last.

Mother Mary happened to be visiting when I got that award and she was very disappointed.

Because it didn’t mention her.

Thanks to all of you who like the stories about her. Many of you have been to my house for our Big Book Club Party and were as loving to her as if she were your own mother.

With profanity added.

Mother Mary bathed in your affection and talked about you readers all the time. You gave her a gift that she didn’t even know she needed.

A spotlight.

In my opinion, every mother deserves one.

Mother’s Day may be around the corner, but honestly, I don’t think we give mothers the credit they deserve.

They were the invisible force of nature behind all of us, and if we were lucky, it was a fair wind, not an ill one.

I was lucky, and so was my brother Frank.

Mother Mary was the most loving of mothers and adored being a grandmother, too. I love when Francesca writes about her, because though we know how much grandparents adore their grandchildren, it’s not often you get to hear how much a grandchild loves a grandparent.

Even more.

We call Francesca The Grandmother Whisperer, because my mother would do anything if Francesca asked.

But not if I did.

Because Francesca asked, Mother Mary even went to the fireworks on July 4, and you haven’t lived until you’ve sat under an exploding sky with your vaguely combustible mother.

When Mother Mary was in hospice at our house, Francesca was at her side, caring for her, talking with her, and doing my mother’s nails, a loving act made more poignant by its circumstances.

Mother Mary used to joke that when she passed, she wanted a mausoleum.

At least I think it was a joke.

She was proud of herself.

She stood up for herself.

She tried to get the best for herself and her family.

She loved people. She could not walk into an Acme without greeting the produce guys, whom she knew by name.

She struck up conversations with every shopper.

She played peekaboo with every baby.

She made life fun.

If Mother Mary grounded 4000 flights, she had a good laugh over it.

So did I.

Happy Easter, Mom.

We love you.

Entitled

March 2, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Big news!

I applied for Social Security!

I know, there are those of you who don’t think this is big news, and there are others who have no idea what I’m talking about.

Allow me to explain.

You get to apply for Social Security when you get old.

And the good news is, I got old!

I crossed the finish line!

I bookended my own life!

I really don’t take this lightly. Not everybody gets to be old, and I have friends who did not get to the privilege of aging.

Life is precious.

But it’s not an entitlement.

Like Social Security.

I remember when I saw the taxes taken out of my first paycheck, and Mother Mary told me the money would be given back to me when I’m old.

It seemed unfair.

Until now.

Frankly, the government did the right thing.

Because I would’ve invested in shoes.

Also handbags.

But they kept my money, and all I had to do was keep breathing.

I did it!

I was excited to apply for Social Security, but I worried there would be a lot of forms and I wouldn’t know where to begin.

So I typed into the computer, How do I apply for Social Security?

A link popped onto the screen, and I answered the questions from there.

It took me TEN minutes to apply for Social Security online.

God’s honest truth!

I felt like I finished the test early and was looking around at everyone else still writing, a position I’ve never been in.

I admit I wasn’t sure about one of the questions, which was whether I wanted my first check now or later, but I decided the answer is now, especially because I’d waited long enough and I’m worried about what’s going to happen to Social Security.

Here’s where I tell you that I used to be a government employee.

I worked for the federal court system when I was a law clerk to a judge on the Third Circuit Court of Appeals. It was the most wonderful job I ever had except for the one I have now, where I’m the judge.

I give myself great performance reviews.

And raises.

Also shoes and handbags.

To return to point, I knew a lot of government employees back then, and they were all hard-working, honest, and dedicated to their jobs.

They did not waste taxpayer money.

No one ever forgot for a minute that someone was paying for our pencils, computers, and desks.

Bottom line, we were paying.

But nowadays, a random billionaire is running around like the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland, shouting “off with their heads,” waving a chainsaw, and firing federal employees willy-nilly, claiming that most federal employees are frauds.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

But this column is supposed to be funny.

And the joke’s on us, friends.

Now we’ll pay taxes but get fewer services, all thanks to random billionaires who pay no taxes.

They’re not entitled, they just act that way.

Here’s the truth:

America is a big country, and its government provides a lot of services that need to be administered. The court system in which I worked administered justice. In other words, you cannot get justice without a lot of people to do the things that need to be done first.

Just like you cannot eat a dinner without somebody to buy and cook the food, then set the table and clean up after.

It’s really that simple.

You cannot get services like justice without administrators, and when you eliminate the administrators, you eliminate the services.

I can only pray that random billionaires don’t take our Social Security, put our checks in their own pockets, and call it justice.

Because it’s the exact opposite.

Participation Trophy

January 3, 2025December 8, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Let me tell you the story of Motorcycle Mary.

Not to be confused with Mother Mary.

Both women were inspiring, but in different ways.

Motorcycle Mary was Mary McGee, who was the first woman in the United States to race a motorcycle.

She passed away recently at eighty-seven, and I learned about her from a short film co-produced by my favorite Formula One race driver, Lewis Hamilton.

Yes, I’m into Formula One.

Ever since I found the Netflix series Drive to Survive I became immediately addicted to Formula One, even at this late stage of my life.

At the time, I was Formula 68.

Also I got a crush on Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz, Charles LeClerc, and the other drivers. Hot men in hot cars. What’s not to like?

Now I watch the races, read the books, buy the gear, and see film shorts about amazing women like Motorcycle Mary.

She’s also the first person to race a motorcycle alone, five hundred miles across the Baja desert, in 1975. She was denied recognition and awards because she was a woman, but she didn’t let that stop her. She loved racing, so she did it more and more, despite hardship and even sabotage. When she was asked why, she answered:

“I choose to participate in life.”

Wow!

I thought that was such a wonderful perspective, even for the holidays, when there are no motorcycles in sight.

I mean, we’re busy year round, then the holidays arrive and bring more and more tasks. We process this as stress, understandably, so the holidays can become negative. Buying gifts, finding the right size, and hoping the package comes on time become chores that keep us up at night.

Or is it just me?

But lately I’m thinking about Motorcycle Mary.

And I might be Motorcycle Lisa.

Or more my speed, Tricycle Lisa.

Because I’m coming to believe that adding things is simply participating in life.

Which is good.

In fact, doing more things is just participating more and more.

Maybe life is about participating.

And we all deserve a participation trophy.

Since when do they have such a bad name?

I never agreed with that.

A participation trophy means you came, you had fun, and you went home.

Why not?

The participation trophy that motorcycle Mary is talking about is a life fully-lived.

With more adventures.

Column Classic: Giving Thanks

January 3, 2025December 1, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Happy Thanksgiving! Rerunning this column with love and gratitude for all the family and friends at our Thanksgiving tables, and in memory of those who also have empty chairs.

Information is like turkey and stuffing.

It’s hard to tell when you’ve had enough.

And the more you get, the more you want.

At least that’s how I feel. I’m bad at portion control, whether it’s Thanksgiving dinner or information.

Obviously, I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too much information. If you read this column, you know about my bunions, fleas, cellulite, and Mother Mary.

One of these is to be avoided at all costs.

Not the one you think.

I love information. I always want more. When I look back at my life, I regret the things I wouldn’t have done if I’d had more information. I’m talking Thing One, Thing Two, and Amway products.

But it turns out you can get more information than ever before, and I am giving thanks.

Because I heard about this kit you can buy, test yourself, and find out your DNA.

I went to the website to learn about it, astounded. You order the kit, test your saliva, and send it back to the company.

Yes, you mail them your spit.

I’m wondering if I can mail them my cellulite, too.

Plus a few fleas.

Anyway, I am excited about this, and I ordered one for Daughter Francesca and one for me.

Merry Christmas, Francesca!

I don’t know if Francesca wants a DNA kit for Christmas. If she doesn’t, I’ll take the test twice. Maybe my score will improve, like the SATs.

I didn’t get a DNA kit for Mother Mary. I can find out what’s in her DNA by looking in the mirror.

Also, can you imagine asking Mother Mary for a saliva sample?

“Here!” she’d say, and spit in my face.

So why do I want to do this? The test can let you know tons of things about yourself. For example, if you’re a carrier of 53 different diseases, including Maple Syrup Urine Disease.

I bet you didn’t even know that existed.

Neither did I.

Maybe Mrs. Butterworth had it.

I’m not sure what Maple Syrup Urine Disease is, but I’m guessing it’s a disease that makes your urine look like maple syrup.

In that case, my medical advice would be simple.

Don’t pee on your pancakes.

It may look right, but it won’t taste right.

The test also lets you know if you’re at risk for 122 diseases, including back pain.

Okay, maybe I already know that one.

And the test can determine 60 of my genetic traits, but I already know a lot of those, too. For example:

Eye Color: Bloodshot Blue.

Hair Color: Fake.

Height: Stumpy.

Breast Morphology: Presently Morphing Due to Gravity and Unfairness of Life in General.

Memory: Huh?

Earwax Type: Johnson’s.

Eating Behavior: Rapid and Unattractive.

Food Preference: Yes.

Caffeine Consumption: Dunkin Donuts.

Odor Detection: How dare you.

Pain response. Ouchy.

Muscle Performance: Slack and Wasting.

Response to exercise: Procrastination.

Response to Diet: Not Applicable.

The test can even tell you whether you’re a carrier or at risk of a disease based on whether you originate from Europe, East Asia, or sub-Saharan Africa. Sadly, there are no separate categories for those of us who originate in South Philly.

Yo!

Interestingly, the kit can also tell you about your own ancestry. Both my mother and father were Italian-American, so I always assumed I was a purebred.

But maybe not.

And if I’m not Italian, somebody has to explain my nose.

The test can even determine what percent of my DNA comes from Neanderthals, which the website calls a Neanderthal Percentage,

I thought we all came from Neanderthals, but maybe not. Maybe there are other kinds of Thals.

The website says that Neanderthals have a bigger skull, which sounds exactly like me. Mother Mary always said I have a hard head, and now I have an excuse.

It’s in my DNA.

In fact, it’s her fault.

But will you be the one to tell her?

Column Classic: Mother Mary and The Retirement Village

January 3, 2025November 17, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Sooner or later, most families will deal with the question of whether an aging mom or dad should move to a retirement community. The pamphlets say it’s not an easy decision, and they never met Mother Mary.

We begin with some background.

As you may know, my mother lives with Brother Frank in South Beach, and lately they’ve been talking about selling their house.

By lately, I mean the past twenty years.

The Flying Scottolines move slowly. So slowly, in fact, that we try to sell houses in the worst recession of all time, in which the real estate prices are at an all-time low. If you need investment advice, just ask us. We hear that tech stocks are superhot.

If Mother Mary and Brother Frank sell their house, the question becomes whether they should continue to live together, or whether Mother Mary should move to a retirement village.

It takes a village to raise Mother Mary.

And I wish it luck.

Anyway, they can’t decide what to do. They love living together. He’s gay, and his gay friends love their moms, so they’re all living in a happy circle of fragrant stereotypes.

And Frank takes wonderful care of her, taking her to all of her doctor’s appointments, grocery store runs, and occasional dinners out. There’s a special place in heaven reserved for people who take such great care of their parents, and once my brother gets there, he’ll not only get a free pass, he’ll be allowed to park anywhere.

By the way, Mother Mary doesn’t want to live with me, because she says, “All you do is read and write.”

To which I plead guilty.

And though we prefer her to live with family, we all know that Frank might not always be able to take care of her, and that even though she’s in great health now, she might not always be. So we’re all confused, and I decided that we should go visit a retirement village near me in Pennsylvania, since none of us had ever seen one. In fact, we’re so old-school that we kept calling it a “nursing home,” which is the last term that applies.

On the contrary, it’s paradise.

We were shown through a lovely building, complete with two restaurants and a “pub,” which serves drinks in front of a big TV. We read a daily menu that included trout almandine, duck with wild rice, and baked Alaska. We toured a gym that had a Jacuzzi and an indoor pool. We saw a beautiful one-bedroom apartment with freshly painted walls, cushy wool rugs, and maid service. We got brochures on discount trips to Egypt and London. And they have a computer class, a book club, canasta, bridge, and pinochle clubs, plus yoga, aerobics, free weights, and “seated” exercise.

So you know where this is going:

I’m ready to move in.

Now.

Say the word.

Retire me.

I’m old enough, at least I feel old enough.

They had me at “seated exercise.” Exercising while seated is my kind of exercise. It’s a piece a cake.

Just do it.

For example, I’m seated right now, watching football on TV, which I gather is “unseated exercise.” How conventional. All that moving around.

Who needs it?

But to stay on point, I fell in love with the place, and so did Brother Frank. It even had a huge model train set, which he began playing with immediately, pressing the button to make the toy locomotive chug through the fake forest, until it derailed, careened off the track, and vanished into some fake shrubbery.

He walked away quickly.

I blamed it on my mother.

Why not? It’s the American way.

And I bet you think you know what Mother Mary thought of the place.

She loved it.

Surprise!

She’s hasn’t decided she wants to move there, and they’re going back to Florida to let it sink in. We’ll see what happens, and I’ll let you know. I’m just happy that’s she didn’t reject the idea outright.

I think they had her at “maid service.”

Column Classic: One Down

January 3, 2025November 10, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Mother Mary never forgets anything. Take the Case of the Crossword Puzzle Cookie Jar.

Our story begins when I see an ad for a cookie jar in the newspaper. It’s a square white jar with a real crossword puzzle on each of the four sides, and it has a special pen that you use to fill in the blanks. Plus it comes with heart-shaped cookies that I don’t have to bake myself.

Mother Mary loves crossword puzzles, though she doesn’t much care for cookies, regardless of shape. Bottom line, the crossword-puzzle cookie jar struck me as a great gift for Mother’s Day. At the time I saw the ad, it was a month in advance of the holiday, so I ordered it online, charged it to my credit card, and specified that it be sent to her. Then I ordered her flowers like I always do and figured I had Mother’s Day squared away.

But when I called her for Mother Mary’s Day, she’d gotten the flowers but not the crossword-puzzle cookie jar. It never came. She was happy with her flowers and didn’t mind not getting the jar. She told me to make sure I wasn’t charged for it. I wasn’t worried. I assumed they hadn’t charged me, because something had clearly gone wrong. The next week, she called me.

She said, “I saw an ad for that cookie jar, and that thing cost a hundred bucks.”

“I know.”

“That’s too much to spend on me.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, because I’m such a sport. I’m the kind of daughter who promises her mother gifts that never arrive. And cookies that other people bake.

“Did you check and see if they charged you?”

“The statement didn’t come in yet, but I will.”

“Make sure you do. Mark my words.”

Then, every time I call to say hi, the first thing she asks is:

“Did you make sure they didn’t charge you for that cockamamie cookie jar?”

“Not yet. Don’t you want it? I can call and ask them to send you another one.”

“No, I don’t want it. It costs too much. I just want to make sure they don’t charge you.”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know? Don’t be a patsy.”

I smile. Patsy is a great word. More people should use it. “Okay, I’ll check.”

I hang up, vowing to check my credit statement when it comes in. The next week, she calls me.

“I slept terrible last night,” she says.

“Why?”

“This thing with that cookie jar. It’s keeping me up.”

“Why?”

“It’s a scam.”

I blink. “What?”

“Lots of people like crossword puzzles, right?”

“Right.”

“And lots of people like cookies.”

“Except you.”

“Right. So. The company says they’ll send the cookie jars, but they don’t, and nobody checks to see if they got charged, and the next thing you know, they’re off on a cruise.”

“Financed by cookie jars?”

“You got it!”

I hang up, this time vowing I will never order her anything from the newspaper, or anywhere else. Every gift I will buy and carry to her, or else she’ll have a heart attack for Mother’s Day.

But last week the statement finally came in, and I checked it.

You know what?

They charged me.

But I’m not telling.

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