In those mothering arms
'Smacking' joint at last-stand gas-up
EVERY year I write a similar Mother’s Day column. Maybe I change a word, shed a tear. Me, an only child. Deciding she didn’t like my birth father dentist — not even his teeth — when I was 2, my mother divorced him.
Mom then married my loving insurance man stepfather. No brothers, no sisters.
Mom was my All. Family. Friend. Caregiver. Protector. Doctor. Support system. Income producer. I am a Mother lover. Each year I miss my mom. And whoever I meet on later’s heavenly path I will never love more.
Today my Yorkie, Jellybean (my dogs always named with a “J” after Jessica, my mom), is needy. Craving attention. That was me growing up.
We had no money. Me, not talented. Not pretty. Chunky. Not great skin or glorious hair. Anemic. As a child I took trishaped green little Feosol tablets, which provide iron. Still today I take them.
She was my all
Mom — gorgeous. Thick red hair. Born in Liverpool. Perfect English. Executive secretary. Beautiful. Me, not. Always sickly. No matter what — she was always there for me. Acting school, modeling school, perfect pronunciation in a reporters school. I learned to walk, talk. She was determined I would become something.
Her parents — old-school. Not a penny. Grandma took in boarders. Grandpa a starving tailor.
Only relative on this family path, same age as my mom, was my longtime husband. When he passed on, she followed four months later. And then I was one.
Years had taken their toll on her. Then came a hospital bed that I bought for her in a Long Island house I maintained for her. A crew of people watching over her. Lying unfocused, unspeaking, unaware. No longer cognizant of who I was. A stuffed teddy bear inside the iron bars so her fingers would feel something warm and fuzzy to touch.
Even when she didn’t know it, I knew it. I knew inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, educated, verbose, vibrant, witty, dynamic fun-loving killer lady who had forever been my All. My Everything. The core of my being.
She once wrote about me: “People told me as she was growing up that I spoiled my child. They were wrong. They didn’t understand what ‘giving’ or ‘my kid’ was. She was never the type to take more than one new anything. Now she’s the one giving and I’m the one trying not to take more than one new thing at any time.”
Saying goodbye
Time came when an icy stab of fear pierced me. I couldn’t even hug her. One that wouldn’t frighten her. Or be understood. Or returned. She couldn’t speak. I tried calming myself that somehow in her deepest recesses she sort of sensed mine was a friendly being. Maybe even a brief flicker of light as to who I was — the crying person touching her, hovering over her.
Pressures of life have in some cases shredded the delicate fabric that binds a family. For whatever reason, this world can create wide ugly gaps between mother and child. Not for me to sit in judgment.
I only say, Sunday is Mother’s Day. And if it’s within your ability — call. Send flowers. Tell your mother you love her. I wish I could.
I can’t anymore.
The last gas station below 14th Street in Manhattan will fill you up in more than one way.
The tiny hamburger joint Smacking Burger has opened inside the fourpump Mobil station, which also has a small wedge of a convenience store at Eighth Avenue and Horatio Street.
On a recent Saturday, the owners said they served some 800 customers.
When you walk in, there’s a typical cashier to the left. To the right, past a shelf of chips and adjacent to coolers of drinks, Smacking Burger occupies a tight triangle.
In that cramped space, station owner Tommy Hondros and his girlfriend Elizabeth Torres, along with two employees, take orders, fry fries and cook burgers on a sizzling flattop grill.
“It’s hectic,” Hondros, 37, told The Post. “We’re trying to get everyone fed.”
He and Torres, 32, started serving smashburgers — burgers pressed into thin, crispy-edged patties — out of the station at the end of April.
“People say they love that feeing of pulling up to a gas station and getting a burger. You can’t get that anywhere else [in the city],” said Hondros, who owns three other service stations, all in Brooklyn.
“I’ve been pumping gas since age 9,” the Bay Ridge native added.
“My father had gas stations forever.”
‘Old-school’
He fondly recalls how fuel stops used to house unique burger joints and wanted to recreate that experience.
“I wanted to get that oldschool feeling. There’s nothing but Burger King now,” he said.
Smacking Burger definitely has its own vibe.
On a recent Wednesday, a dozen or so customers — mostly young men in the sporty vests and high-performance work pants that signal careers in tech — lined up outside before the noon opening.
Six different burger variations are on offer.
There are also sides such as “Famous Fries” ($7.99) loaded with beef crumbles, American cheese, pickles, “smack sauce” — a riff on a pink burger sauce, elevated with dill — and a creamy take on chimichurri.
Neighbor raves
Lucas Flores Piran, 38, a film director who lives down the street from gas station, raved about the Big Smack and said it was worth his 40-minute wait. (His goldendoodle Apollo also enjoyed a $3 puppy patty.)
“It’s delicious, hearty, flavorful, nice umami,” he enthused.
Chris Melbourne, 35, a who lives in Brooklyn and works at Apple’s nearby offices, loved the smack sauce and the juiciness of the patty.
“I definitely would go back for more,” he said.