Cherries in Winter: My Family's Recipe for Hope in Hard Times by Suzan Colón Page A
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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$4.99 steak-and-potatodinner. We might even get a cherry pie, which we’d take home and eat, bite by bite, over the next few days.
The women in my family have certain traits: height, prominent noses, and the ability to rationalize spending extra, just once in a while, when there is no extra to be spent.
Because
. I got some of their height and all of the nose, but I thought that last characteristic was missing in me. It wasn’t; I just didn’t realize that it only wakes up when we begin to measure ourselves by money, or the lack of it. It’s not a reflexive kick of denial about having less. It’s a deep breath reminding us not to become miserly in spirit. We may be broke, but we’re not poor.
The French raisins are a revelation. They look and taste like jewels. Nana would have loved them.
12
WHAT PRICE BEAUTY?
YOUR MAKEUP AT WORK: Dewy. Natural eyebrows, and if penciled, carefully, carefully—never obviously. If you use eyeliner, only on upper lid, never lower. Never go without lipstick; it only makes you look washed out. Nothing looks better than a slightly rosy red mouth
.
HOW YOU SMELL AT WORK: No perfume—ever. Baby oil and talcum powder for you. Delicious
.
From “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!”
by Matilda Kallaher
• • •
Nana was a showstopper. She fit the stereotypical grandma profile in only one respect: her white hair. But she wore it stylishly short, with a Marilyn Monroe wave swooping down over one eye. She was incredibly chic—one of the first things people said about her, and still do, is how elegant she was. You’d never know she came from a family so perpetually broke she’d nearly starved to death, and that was the point.
When I was five I wanted to be fifty-five so I could look like Nana. She would let me wear her dresses and her jewelry, and I couldn’t wait for the day my hair would turn white like hers. She wasn’t a beauty—that was my mother, and even as a kid I sensed I’d never be as traffic-stoppingly gorgeous as Mom was. What Nana had was more attainable: a sense of style. She’d taken what she had and made the most of it.
She started with fine manners. “If you want to get along with everybody at a cocktail party,” she told my mother, “don’t discuss sex, politics, or religion.” (Unless a party was dull, that is; then she’d take gentle swipes at both politics
and
religion. “When all else fails,” she told Mom, “kick the chandelier.”) Then she dressed impeccably, though she never owned expensive clothes. She took note of what was in fashion andfound something similar for less money at bargain department stores like Loehmann’s and Alexander’s, or she stuck with classics and let inexpensive costume jewelry reflect the current trend. Last and most important, Nana made sure everything she wore fit her hourglass figure perfectly.
After a trip to Alexander’s, she’d stop at Papaya King, a hot dog stand, for two dogs with mustard and sauerkraut and a papaya drink. Then she would treat herself to a taxi home. (“She saved money on clothes and food, but she lived rich,” says my godmother Barbara.)
After she turned fifty, Nana wouldn’t wear black scarves or tops: “It drains the life out of a woman’s face,” she said. She never, ever went anywhere without her lipstick (shocking pink was her color), advice she shared with young secretaries in that article she wrote in the 1960s called “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!” She did her manicures herself, and she always cut her own hair.
• • •
I used to get my hair cut by a stylist—once they start using that title instead of “hairdresser” they’recharging serious cash, and this one was no exception. She billed three hundred dollars for a cut, and I never would have gone to her if I’d had to pay that much money. But I got a discount for having been a loyal customer since the days when her fee was a mere two hundred, and another because I put in a good word for
The women in my family have certain traits: height, prominent noses, and the ability to rationalize spending extra, just once in a while, when there is no extra to be spent.
Because
. I got some of their height and all of the nose, but I thought that last characteristic was missing in me. It wasn’t; I just didn’t realize that it only wakes up when we begin to measure ourselves by money, or the lack of it. It’s not a reflexive kick of denial about having less. It’s a deep breath reminding us not to become miserly in spirit. We may be broke, but we’re not poor.
The French raisins are a revelation. They look and taste like jewels. Nana would have loved them.
12
WHAT PRICE BEAUTY?
YOUR MAKEUP AT WORK: Dewy. Natural eyebrows, and if penciled, carefully, carefully—never obviously. If you use eyeliner, only on upper lid, never lower. Never go without lipstick; it only makes you look washed out. Nothing looks better than a slightly rosy red mouth
.
HOW YOU SMELL AT WORK: No perfume—ever. Baby oil and talcum powder for you. Delicious
.
From “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!”
by Matilda Kallaher
• • •
Nana was a showstopper. She fit the stereotypical grandma profile in only one respect: her white hair. But she wore it stylishly short, with a Marilyn Monroe wave swooping down over one eye. She was incredibly chic—one of the first things people said about her, and still do, is how elegant she was. You’d never know she came from a family so perpetually broke she’d nearly starved to death, and that was the point.
When I was five I wanted to be fifty-five so I could look like Nana. She would let me wear her dresses and her jewelry, and I couldn’t wait for the day my hair would turn white like hers. She wasn’t a beauty—that was my mother, and even as a kid I sensed I’d never be as traffic-stoppingly gorgeous as Mom was. What Nana had was more attainable: a sense of style. She’d taken what she had and made the most of it.
She started with fine manners. “If you want to get along with everybody at a cocktail party,” she told my mother, “don’t discuss sex, politics, or religion.” (Unless a party was dull, that is; then she’d take gentle swipes at both politics
and
religion. “When all else fails,” she told Mom, “kick the chandelier.”) Then she dressed impeccably, though she never owned expensive clothes. She took note of what was in fashion andfound something similar for less money at bargain department stores like Loehmann’s and Alexander’s, or she stuck with classics and let inexpensive costume jewelry reflect the current trend. Last and most important, Nana made sure everything she wore fit her hourglass figure perfectly.
After a trip to Alexander’s, she’d stop at Papaya King, a hot dog stand, for two dogs with mustard and sauerkraut and a papaya drink. Then she would treat herself to a taxi home. (“She saved money on clothes and food, but she lived rich,” says my godmother Barbara.)
After she turned fifty, Nana wouldn’t wear black scarves or tops: “It drains the life out of a woman’s face,” she said. She never, ever went anywhere without her lipstick (shocking pink was her color), advice she shared with young secretaries in that article she wrote in the 1960s called “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!” She did her manicures herself, and she always cut her own hair.
• • •
I used to get my hair cut by a stylist—once they start using that title instead of “hairdresser” they’recharging serious cash, and this one was no exception. She billed three hundred dollars for a cut, and I never would have gone to her if I’d had to pay that much money. But I got a discount for having been a loyal customer since the days when her fee was a mere two hundred, and another because I put in a good word for
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