Cherries in Winter: My Family's Recipe for Hope in Hard Times by Suzan Colón
Book: Cherries in Winter: My Family's Recipe for Hope in Hard Times by Suzan Colón
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Authors: Suzan Colón
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herself up to her full, impressive height, picked up a knife, and began carefully slicing the loaf. “So we eat bread and applesauce for a week … It will not kill us.”
• • •
DECEMBER 1961
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
“Why would you waste so much money on cherries?” Charlie asked Matilda when she presented him with a small cache of winter bings.
“Because,” she said, knowing that if she had to explain it, there was no point.
After that, Matilda shared them with her daughter, Carolyn, who understood the importance of a dark red cherry in the middle of winter: the snap of the skin, thetart juice tasting of summers past and the summer to come.
At the time, Matilda was working in the heart of Columbus Circle at the Coliseum convention center—her business cards, which were pink, read MATILDA E. KALLAHER, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT FOR SALES . Carolyn had just started modeling, and she occasionally worked at Coliseum expos like the auto show. Matilda’s boss would look at the teenaged blend of Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly and say, “Mrs. K., your daughter should be in college, not draped over a car.” But Matilda was convinced that Carolyn was going to be a big star.
Carolyn herself wasn’t that hot on modeling, especially after a fortune-teller at one of the Coliseum shows said she was going to die on a photo shoot in Africa at the age of thirty-two. Matilda waved it away. “Just don’t go to Africa.”
“Okay, but if anything happens to me, promise you’ll do my makeup,” Carolyn said. “Don’t let one of those funeral home cosmeticians do it—they’re terrible.”
“Same goes for me,” Matilda said. “Nobody does my eyebrows but you.”
“Deal.” They shook on it and went for their regular visit to the fruit vendor around the corner.
For an assignment in her high school creative writing class, Carolyn had written an essay about one of these early evening trips that took place the previous spring. She described her mother as being wistful for Paris, a place she’d never been to and, though they didn’t know it at the time, would never see. The indulgence du jour was jumbo-sized prunes, and they ate them out of the paper bag as they walked—something people just didn’t do back then. Especially not ladies, whose proper attire included gloves, even in the summertime. As un-done as it was, two blond women almost six feet tall doing it attracted even more attention. Carolyn (who described herself as being the more conventional one) suggested putting the fruit away for later, but Matilda told her not to be silly. “It shows a lot of poise if we can walk along Fifth Avenue eating prunes,” she said. Carolyn laughed. “Mother, you are a hobo at heart.”
One night in the middle of December, the fruit vendor had the winter cherries. They were pricey all right, but Matilda didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t that coldout, so mother and daughter walked to the park and sat on a bench to enjoy their extravagance.
“Is there anything better in the world,” Matilda said, “than being in Manhattan in Central Park and eating cherries in winter?”
• • •
Matilde gave the fine porcelain vases to Carrie when she got married. Carrie gave them to her daughter, Matilda. And now those vases are sitting on the counter of an antique breakfront in my mother’s kitchen.
Nana’s winter cherries weren’t as expensive as the vases, but they meant the same thing: She spent a little more to keep herself from feeling like less. And when Mom was down to her last twenty and a paycheck wasn’t coming until the end of the week, she’d sing, “We need a little Christmas / Right this very minute,” and we’d go out for dinner.
We might have Wienerschnitzel at Café Hindenburg, one of ten or so similar restaurants in our neighborhood, which was once called Germantown because of the many German immigrants who settled there, including Nana’s grandfather Peter. Or we’d go to the Flaming Embers for a
• • •
DECEMBER 1961
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
“Why would you waste so much money on cherries?” Charlie asked Matilda when she presented him with a small cache of winter bings.
“Because,” she said, knowing that if she had to explain it, there was no point.
After that, Matilda shared them with her daughter, Carolyn, who understood the importance of a dark red cherry in the middle of winter: the snap of the skin, thetart juice tasting of summers past and the summer to come.
At the time, Matilda was working in the heart of Columbus Circle at the Coliseum convention center—her business cards, which were pink, read MATILDA E. KALLAHER, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT FOR SALES . Carolyn had just started modeling, and she occasionally worked at Coliseum expos like the auto show. Matilda’s boss would look at the teenaged blend of Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly and say, “Mrs. K., your daughter should be in college, not draped over a car.” But Matilda was convinced that Carolyn was going to be a big star.
Carolyn herself wasn’t that hot on modeling, especially after a fortune-teller at one of the Coliseum shows said she was going to die on a photo shoot in Africa at the age of thirty-two. Matilda waved it away. “Just don’t go to Africa.”
“Okay, but if anything happens to me, promise you’ll do my makeup,” Carolyn said. “Don’t let one of those funeral home cosmeticians do it—they’re terrible.”
“Same goes for me,” Matilda said. “Nobody does my eyebrows but you.”
“Deal.” They shook on it and went for their regular visit to the fruit vendor around the corner.
For an assignment in her high school creative writing class, Carolyn had written an essay about one of these early evening trips that took place the previous spring. She described her mother as being wistful for Paris, a place she’d never been to and, though they didn’t know it at the time, would never see. The indulgence du jour was jumbo-sized prunes, and they ate them out of the paper bag as they walked—something people just didn’t do back then. Especially not ladies, whose proper attire included gloves, even in the summertime. As un-done as it was, two blond women almost six feet tall doing it attracted even more attention. Carolyn (who described herself as being the more conventional one) suggested putting the fruit away for later, but Matilda told her not to be silly. “It shows a lot of poise if we can walk along Fifth Avenue eating prunes,” she said. Carolyn laughed. “Mother, you are a hobo at heart.”
One night in the middle of December, the fruit vendor had the winter cherries. They were pricey all right, but Matilda didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t that coldout, so mother and daughter walked to the park and sat on a bench to enjoy their extravagance.
“Is there anything better in the world,” Matilda said, “than being in Manhattan in Central Park and eating cherries in winter?”
• • •
Matilde gave the fine porcelain vases to Carrie when she got married. Carrie gave them to her daughter, Matilda. And now those vases are sitting on the counter of an antique breakfront in my mother’s kitchen.
Nana’s winter cherries weren’t as expensive as the vases, but they meant the same thing: She spent a little more to keep herself from feeling like less. And when Mom was down to her last twenty and a paycheck wasn’t coming until the end of the week, she’d sing, “We need a little Christmas / Right this very minute,” and we’d go out for dinner.
We might have Wienerschnitzel at Café Hindenburg, one of ten or so similar restaurants in our neighborhood, which was once called Germantown because of the many German immigrants who settled there, including Nana’s grandfather Peter. Or we’d go to the Flaming Embers for a
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