A recent Pew Research survey of the Millennial Generation – those aged 18 to 33 – found them to be more detached from tradition and religious institutions than previous generations. That detachment is celebrated by some and decried by others. I am grateful, however, that I grew up in a different age. The reason is simple — for me tradition served as a safety net. Tradition also was the foundation on which I could build a relationship with my mother.

A few years back a boyfriend asked why I always talked about my mom, yet only had photos of my father displayed in my apartment. I had not realized it until that moment, but he was right. Of course it made sense. I had thirty some years of a relationship with my mom compared to six with my father. Besides, it would seem a bit creepy if I were regaling him with tales of my dead dad. Did I tell you about the time at the funeral . . .

Like many other children who are for a variety of reasons raised by a single parent, there is a special kind of relationship that develops. The interaction between mothers and daughters – like fathers and sons – is often quite unique and often quite volatile. Would our relationship have been different had my dad lived? Definitely.

For one thing, after my brother left for college, it was just my mom and I living in our house in Cincinnati. And I was not at the age yet where I could drive, which greatly limited my ability to escape. As most of us have learned along the way is that there is a silver lining to most bad events. I have few good memories of my father, but have many of my mother.

Yes, there have been some Afterschool Special moments over the years, particularly during my teen years. There were also Gilmore Girls moments too.

There were the lunches at The Echo, a restaurant in Cincinnati at which we would frequently have lunch. We normally would sit at the counter and she always, always ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, open-faced with a side of mashed potatoes. I never walked into the kitchen, but can say with confidence that they were not “real” potatoes.

I would occasionally have dessert. Mom never did. As she liked to say (and say again and again), she had eaten enough ice cream growing up in Wisconsin to last her a lifetime. And that worked out well for both of us when we would take our weekly trips to Graeter’s for ice cream. If you ever visit Cincinnati, it is a no-miss stop.

Mom and I would pile into the car, I would jump out and run inside to buy a hot fudge sundae with vanilla ice cream. I loved, loved being assigned the task of going in on my own. I felt so grown-up. It took very little to make me feel like an adult back then.

At any rate, I would bring the sundae back to the car with two spoons. She would eat all of the fudge and I would eat all of the vanilla ice cream. It just made sense.

Sunday nights during the football season, dinner always was pancakes sans syrup, bacon for Mom and tea. There were several of those kinds of traditions we shared over the years.

And it might explain why I remain to this day a creature of habit. When we moved to London, The Echo was replaced by Europa lunches.

Every Sunday following 12:15 Mass, we would walk over to Europa, which was a grocery store just off of Sloane Square. And every Sunday we would purchase a baguette and cold cuts for lunch. The baguettes were unlike any I had tasted in the States. Whether it was the ovens or the ingredients they used, I do not know. But they were delicious. The outside was baked to a light crunch, and seemed to shield the dough inside from the oven’s heat. This allowed it transform into a consistency that would melt in your mouth.

A bottle of wine, a wedge of brie and some fruit completed the picture. Then we would take the 22 bus back home. Rain or shine, every Sunday this was our ritual. There was a comfort to these rituals. We would take about random things or about the news of the day. More importantly, we would simply share each other’s company. Even if no words were exchanged. Those were traditions that I treasure today.

And, for the record, not one of those lunches or dinners was ever photographed for the purpose of sharing with the whole world. They are experiences solely shared between a mother and a daughter.