Stories

They say that being a mom is the hardest job in the world.

I don't doubt it.

My dad always said that children were like small drunk adults. They walk around with little regard for their safety, they say stupid things, and they vomit. I am probably not going to have them. And I'm going to be real: I don't want to get fat. I don't want my body to change into something I don't recognize. But most importantly, I don't have the patience to be a mom. I have no idea how my mom put up with me. I would sabotage grade school Christmas shows by dressing as Michael Jackson. I would argue about everything, especially regarding bike safety (I didn't care that my helmet was a Barbie licensed helmet damnit.) I wouldn't eat anything she cooked.

In short, I was an asshole.

The second cookbook I bought, as a new bride, was Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. My First Cookbook was the Alice B Toklas Cookbook, but unfortunately for me, that proved too esoteric for the grocery stores in Fort Worth Texas.

I was a new bride. Who knew grocery stores didn’t carry larks and laurel branches. Alice B Toklas cooked for “writers, artists, and expats who lived in Paris between the wars,” but my dreams of dining with Picasso and Hemingway faded quickly.

Then, just in the nick of time, Julia brought me not only a cookbook I might master, but with ingredients that were available. Just having that cookbook on the shelf made me courageous in the kitchen, while I prepared my canned tuna and green noodle casseroles.

It might have ended there - a young bride clutching Julia’s culinary wisdom of France, while she burnt the toast – had I not seen Julie and Julia so many years later.

That gave me Nora. With Nora comes true girlie wisdom: Humor, Love… and Butter.

In Nora’s honor and with both love and humor for my darling friend, Amy Ephron, I searched for a recipe that overflowed with butter, in hopes that eating Scottish Shortbread might bring comfort to us all.

We will truly miss Nora Ephron’s talent and beauty, but fortunately for us, the magic of film allows it to linger always, and I will always have what she is having.

Yesterday I sat through two and a half of the most excruciating hours of my life. Sat through, twisted my torso through, felt like throwing up through. But I stayed there riveted, horrified, sickened and saddened beyond belief.

I was at a movie, "Twelve Years a Slave." A movie that should, in my humble yet convinced opinion, be required viewing for every American over the age of fifteen. It is based on the true story of a black man, a father, a husband, a violinist, a cultured, educated, middle class citizen of Saratoga Springs New York in the 1840's who is kidnapped, brought to the south and sold into slavery. It is the story of what he witnessed, endured, and survived for twelve years before being rescued and reunited with his family.

The movie, directed by Steve McQueen, gives it to us full strength, undiluted. The camera lens takes us into the open, oozing, purple wall of the wound. Close up and into the bubbling beads of fresh blood made by the long taut leather lashing out, slashing, ripping red rivers into chocolate skin.

It's a story of a despicable part of our history and needs to be told correctly for many reasons. And it is torturous to sit through.

There were no more than 300 students in grades 1-12 at Baker Academy and I graduated with pretty much the same 17 people I started 1st grade with. Needless to say, I knew these people quite well and knew exactly what I wanted their mother's to make when I came to visit. Lisa's mother, Ms. Martha made an 'apricot nectar cake', Susan's mom "Ms. Betty" made a 'peach pie' and the list goes on. My mother has many of these recipes saved in a nice little recipe box after her Baker Academy cookbook was reduced to shreds.

The "Baker" cookbook was the first one I ever used. It's a compilation of the best recipes from all the families I grew up with. I wish we would have been more gentle with it as was typed on plane paper and bound with spiral plastic; no doubt a project a group of mother's took on, probably 'assembly-line' style in the school lunchroom. 

Several years ago, when my grandmother died, guess what we found? An old Baker Academy cookbook. The cover is missing but it's in pretty good shape. I'm thinking about making copies of it and giving them to all my friends, who ask me for the same recipes that I always ask my mom for that come from the Baker Academy cookbook.