Mother’s mediocrity was so consistently applied that it almost became a kind of excellence.
She wasn’t especially bad at anything. Nor was she particularly good.
In everything she did, Mother was merely adequate.
The many dinners she cooked for us excited no praise, yet were always eaten without complaint. When she gave gifts, they were accepted but rarely used by the recipient. Sweaters unworn, books unread. Her house was mildly comfortable, its smells neither offensive nor pleasant.
Even her conversation was mediocre. Mother was never interesting nor boring. She would deprive her friends of solitude, yet not provide them any company.