living below the poverty line. Wouldn’t every one of them be a potential buyer for her memoir/guidebook?
“Have you written any of it yet?” Anthony asked. We were waiting for the popcorn to pop before we started our ladies’-choice DVD night, which was to say Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Margot said that all she had so far were a few notes, but this much she knew: The book should be small and adorable to catch people’s eye at the cash register; it had to be cheap because her target audience was broke; it would give tips on surviving hard times, cutting corners, finding free everything—openings, museums, readings, concerts, hors d’oeuvres at happy hours. There would be chapters called “Grow Your Own,” “Bake Your Own,” and “Shop Your Closet,” and lots of recipes throughout using cheap cuts of meat and beans in bulk. Most of all, it needed an irresistible title that would work in several languages.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Anthony.
“It’s going to take a lot of work and research,” I said.
Without prompting or apparent rumination, Margot recited, “Tip number one: Sell your car so you aren’t paying for a garage, gas, insurance, inspections, detailing, tune-ups, tolls, you name it. If you’re leaving the city, rent a car—or stay home. Two: Do your own manicures and pedicures. Three: Get your hair colored at a cheap salon or at a beauty school instead of by someone famous. Four: Buy all cosmetics, creams, makeup, et cetera at Duane Reade or CVS. Five: Go to the library. Six: Buy a whole chicken and cut it up yourself and learn to love thighs.”
After a short, diplomatic pause, Anthony asked, “You’re kidding, right?”
“About which one?”
“About all of them!”
Margot said, “In that list alone, a person could save hundreds a month.”
I said, “The problem is, people on budgets already know these tips.”
“Not to mention, they’re totally New York–centric,” said Anthony. “Do small towns even have different tiers of hair colorists?”
“And, no offense,” I said, “but advising someone to go to the library instead of buying books has pretty much been a well-known custom for hundreds of years.”
“Penny-pinching one-o-one,” Anthony grumbled.
“Not a bad title,” Margot said. “Penny-pinching à la Ponzi.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Anthony.
Margot, ever unflappable, said, “Hold your fire. I’ll get the popcorn. And my secret weapon.”
We could hear the opening and closing of kitchen drawers that were not associated with bowls, salt, or napkins. When she rejoined us, she was waving a yellowed magazine, which on inspection turned out to be Great Ground-Beef Recipes , a Family Circle publication marked ninety-five cents. “Copyright nineteen sixty-five!” Margot exclaimed. “A treasure trove left behind by our predecessors. Presto: my entrées.”
I said, “You can’t use someone else’s recipes. They’re copyrighted.”
“I’ve already thought of that. I’ll throw in a line saying that many were inspired by concoctions from a simpler time, blah, blah, blah . . . Merci beaucoup , Family Circle.” She turned to her first bookmark, a strip of wax paper, and read, “Chapter one: What would we do without ground beef, exclamation point.” Smiling happily, she turned to another marked page. “Meat Balls—two words—Stroganoff . . . Meat Balls Veronique . . . Persian Spoonburgers . . . Meat-loaf—hyphenated—Reubens.”
Anthony sighed and announced that he was going to skip Bridget Jones the sequel and opt for a workout.
“Is it the ground beef that’s making you both so mopey, or is it the whole project?” Margot asked.
“I can’t speak for Gwen,” Anthony said, “but I don’t love the idea of recipes from the nineteen sixties.”
“You don’t think the message is ‘I’m no snob. I used to buy porterhouse, but I’m happy with hamburger now’?”
I said, “I suppose
“Have you written any of it yet?” Anthony asked. We were waiting for the popcorn to pop before we started our ladies’-choice DVD night, which was to say Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Margot said that all she had so far were a few notes, but this much she knew: The book should be small and adorable to catch people’s eye at the cash register; it had to be cheap because her target audience was broke; it would give tips on surviving hard times, cutting corners, finding free everything—openings, museums, readings, concerts, hors d’oeuvres at happy hours. There would be chapters called “Grow Your Own,” “Bake Your Own,” and “Shop Your Closet,” and lots of recipes throughout using cheap cuts of meat and beans in bulk. Most of all, it needed an irresistible title that would work in several languages.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Anthony.
“It’s going to take a lot of work and research,” I said.
Without prompting or apparent rumination, Margot recited, “Tip number one: Sell your car so you aren’t paying for a garage, gas, insurance, inspections, detailing, tune-ups, tolls, you name it. If you’re leaving the city, rent a car—or stay home. Two: Do your own manicures and pedicures. Three: Get your hair colored at a cheap salon or at a beauty school instead of by someone famous. Four: Buy all cosmetics, creams, makeup, et cetera at Duane Reade or CVS. Five: Go to the library. Six: Buy a whole chicken and cut it up yourself and learn to love thighs.”
After a short, diplomatic pause, Anthony asked, “You’re kidding, right?”
“About which one?”
“About all of them!”
Margot said, “In that list alone, a person could save hundreds a month.”
I said, “The problem is, people on budgets already know these tips.”
“Not to mention, they’re totally New York–centric,” said Anthony. “Do small towns even have different tiers of hair colorists?”
“And, no offense,” I said, “but advising someone to go to the library instead of buying books has pretty much been a well-known custom for hundreds of years.”
“Penny-pinching one-o-one,” Anthony grumbled.
“Not a bad title,” Margot said. “Penny-pinching à la Ponzi.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Anthony.
Margot, ever unflappable, said, “Hold your fire. I’ll get the popcorn. And my secret weapon.”
We could hear the opening and closing of kitchen drawers that were not associated with bowls, salt, or napkins. When she rejoined us, she was waving a yellowed magazine, which on inspection turned out to be Great Ground-Beef Recipes , a Family Circle publication marked ninety-five cents. “Copyright nineteen sixty-five!” Margot exclaimed. “A treasure trove left behind by our predecessors. Presto: my entrées.”
I said, “You can’t use someone else’s recipes. They’re copyrighted.”
“I’ve already thought of that. I’ll throw in a line saying that many were inspired by concoctions from a simpler time, blah, blah, blah . . . Merci beaucoup , Family Circle.” She turned to her first bookmark, a strip of wax paper, and read, “Chapter one: What would we do without ground beef, exclamation point.” Smiling happily, she turned to another marked page. “Meat Balls—two words—Stroganoff . . . Meat Balls Veronique . . . Persian Spoonburgers . . . Meat-loaf—hyphenated—Reubens.”
Anthony sighed and announced that he was going to skip Bridget Jones the sequel and opt for a workout.
“Is it the ground beef that’s making you both so mopey, or is it the whole project?” Margot asked.
“I can’t speak for Gwen,” Anthony said, “but I don’t love the idea of recipes from the nineteen sixties.”
“You don’t think the message is ‘I’m no snob. I used to buy porterhouse, but I’m happy with hamburger now’?”
I said, “I suppose
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