think we should try it.” And somehow the
ingredients for it would find their way to the kitchen, and the soufflé would
find its way to the table a few days later. She would write out menus for dinner
for the week and elaborate lists for the fruit and vegetable man who came every
Wednesday, the milkman who came twice a week, and my father who went to the
supermarket on Saturday mornings with one of us in tow. Mommy was proud of the
fact that she worked for a living and that she could hire people to help her
with her domestic needs (this included us, by the way). But she was also proud
that she paid unemployment and social security benefits for everyone who worked
for her long before it was required or fashionable.
She made guest appearances in the kitchen.
Scrambled eggs on Christmas morning that were cooked for so long and at such a
low temperature, still soft and a perfect pale yellow, I’m certain they wouldn’t
pass a salmonella test. She made blanched almonds (she was big on TV snacks),
which involved parboiling raw almonds with their skins on, enlisting any of us
who were around to squeeze the almonds out of their skin, a grueling,
time-consuming task up there with prepping string beans that somehow seemed fun
at the time, sitting around the red Formica table in the kitchen as Mommy melted
unsalted butter and then strained it through cheesecloth to clarify it. She
spread the poached almonds on a cookie sheet, drizzled them with butter,
sprinkled them with salt and baked them in a 350˚ oven until they were golden
brown. They were delicious, by the way.
My mother also made guacamole. Its key ingredients
were avocados, diced onion, sour cream, and Worcestershire sauce (at least it
didn’t have mayonnaise like her famous cottage cheese dip, which also had
Worcestershire sauce), but it wasn’t really like the guacamole that we make or
serve today.
It was fabulous, though, because it was elegant—at
least, we thought it was fabulous then.
It was smooth. Absolutely mashed to a pulp with a
fork and blended with sour cream so that it was almost pistachio green. She
served it in a special bowl that rested on a black ridged plate that was filled
with ruffled potato chips at parties and on TV nights, when she ate it lying
down on the built-in Chinese sofa in the bar as she sipped Dewar’s and soda,
usually with a lit Kent cigarette in the ashtray, as she watched College Bowl or Julia Child or To
Tell the Truth and later, Upstairs
Downstairs , which is the first time I remember being totally addicted
to a TV show and feeling smart and grown-up because I was watching Upstairs, Downstairs and eating guacamole with my mom.
It’s a memory that I treasure, a rare spot of peace and contentment, moments
that are always fleeting, with no subtext or drama except what was on the TV
screen.
•••
M y
daughter is in the dining room with a friend, setting the table for dinner.
We’re having hamburgers, medium rare with sliced onions and tomatoes, fresh
hamburger buns that I bought at the bakery, and almost any kind of condiment you
want, mustard, relish, ketchup, pickles. I hear my daughter say, with some alarm
in her voice, “Oh, no! You can’t do that.” Even though I cannot see them, I can
guess what happened—her friend has inadvertently set a naked bottle of ketchup,
mustard, or relish directly on the table. I smile, certain that in a moment,
they will come into the kitchen, as they do, searching for an appropriate bowl
or dish and a small knife or spoon to accompany it. I can imagine Maia or Anna
saying to their children, “It wasn’t a disorder . . .” as they
reach for an appropriate bowl or dish in which to place whatever condiment
they’re serving. There are some things that are passed on to you by your
mother.
Until last September when it was my daughter’s
birthday and we’d been too ambitious—too many flower arrangements, too many
sides. Alan insisted on making brownies as well as ginger cake. I
ingredients for it would find their way to the kitchen, and the soufflé would
find its way to the table a few days later. She would write out menus for dinner
for the week and elaborate lists for the fruit and vegetable man who came every
Wednesday, the milkman who came twice a week, and my father who went to the
supermarket on Saturday mornings with one of us in tow. Mommy was proud of the
fact that she worked for a living and that she could hire people to help her
with her domestic needs (this included us, by the way). But she was also proud
that she paid unemployment and social security benefits for everyone who worked
for her long before it was required or fashionable.
She made guest appearances in the kitchen.
Scrambled eggs on Christmas morning that were cooked for so long and at such a
low temperature, still soft and a perfect pale yellow, I’m certain they wouldn’t
pass a salmonella test. She made blanched almonds (she was big on TV snacks),
which involved parboiling raw almonds with their skins on, enlisting any of us
who were around to squeeze the almonds out of their skin, a grueling,
time-consuming task up there with prepping string beans that somehow seemed fun
at the time, sitting around the red Formica table in the kitchen as Mommy melted
unsalted butter and then strained it through cheesecloth to clarify it. She
spread the poached almonds on a cookie sheet, drizzled them with butter,
sprinkled them with salt and baked them in a 350˚ oven until they were golden
brown. They were delicious, by the way.
My mother also made guacamole. Its key ingredients
were avocados, diced onion, sour cream, and Worcestershire sauce (at least it
didn’t have mayonnaise like her famous cottage cheese dip, which also had
Worcestershire sauce), but it wasn’t really like the guacamole that we make or
serve today.
It was fabulous, though, because it was elegant—at
least, we thought it was fabulous then.
It was smooth. Absolutely mashed to a pulp with a
fork and blended with sour cream so that it was almost pistachio green. She
served it in a special bowl that rested on a black ridged plate that was filled
with ruffled potato chips at parties and on TV nights, when she ate it lying
down on the built-in Chinese sofa in the bar as she sipped Dewar’s and soda,
usually with a lit Kent cigarette in the ashtray, as she watched College Bowl or Julia Child or To
Tell the Truth and later, Upstairs
Downstairs , which is the first time I remember being totally addicted
to a TV show and feeling smart and grown-up because I was watching Upstairs, Downstairs and eating guacamole with my mom.
It’s a memory that I treasure, a rare spot of peace and contentment, moments
that are always fleeting, with no subtext or drama except what was on the TV
screen.
•••
M y
daughter is in the dining room with a friend, setting the table for dinner.
We’re having hamburgers, medium rare with sliced onions and tomatoes, fresh
hamburger buns that I bought at the bakery, and almost any kind of condiment you
want, mustard, relish, ketchup, pickles. I hear my daughter say, with some alarm
in her voice, “Oh, no! You can’t do that.” Even though I cannot see them, I can
guess what happened—her friend has inadvertently set a naked bottle of ketchup,
mustard, or relish directly on the table. I smile, certain that in a moment,
they will come into the kitchen, as they do, searching for an appropriate bowl
or dish and a small knife or spoon to accompany it. I can imagine Maia or Anna
saying to their children, “It wasn’t a disorder . . .” as they
reach for an appropriate bowl or dish in which to place whatever condiment
they’re serving. There are some things that are passed on to you by your
mother.
Until last September when it was my daughter’s
birthday and we’d been too ambitious—too many flower arrangements, too many
sides. Alan insisted on making brownies as well as ginger cake. I
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