Julia's Child (9781101559741)

by Pinneo, Sarah

  “Well bless your heart, Julia,” chirped my neighbor. “You’re . . . you’re saving the world one bite at a time.”

  Unsure whether she was mocking me, I fell silent.

  The doorman had hovered, waiting for this moment. Emily’s husband was president of our co-op board, with Emily as his eyes and ears. Behind our closed apartment door, we referred to her as the First Lady. Now Mario swept the door open for her with a flourish—and right into my waiting shin.

  “So where can I shop for your products?” Emily asked as I limped into the only corner of the elevator unoccupied by her double-wide.

  “Uh,” I said, wincing in pain. “Right now we’re only in a few specialty stores. In Brooklyn. But we’d like to roll out Manhattan really soon,” I told her, as if it were up to me.

  “Elllllllll!” Sadie shrieked from the stroller. “Ell!” She strained against her harness, reaching for the buttons on the control panel.

  Emily gasped. “Wow, Sadie! Good girl! That’s exactly right! L is for ‘lobby’! We know a song about the letter L, don’t we?”

  My neck got very hot as I realized that Emily was about to break into song.

  “La-la-la-la lobby!” she trilled in a surprisingly robust soprano.

  But little Sadie had lost interest and was now chewing the edge of a book titled Baby Brain Builders. Emily stopped singing and grabbed it from her. “Oh! Sadie, books are not for chewing.” The picture on the cover showed an infant wearing a diaper and a mortarboard.

  The elevator continued its glacial ascent away from the la-la-la-la-lobby.

  “Listen, Julia.” Emily turned to me. “I saw your nanny feeding Jasper and Wylie in the playroom again yesterday.”

  My heart sank. The common playroom in the basement, its cleanliness and wholesomeness, was the First Lady’s cause célèbre.

  Unfortunately, our babysitter had already proven herself to be less than fastidious, but I thought I’d sorted it out. “What, uh, what was Bonnie feeding them?” I asked reluctantly, fearing the worst.

  “Grapes,” Emily answered with a frown.

  “Oh!” I said, relieved. “But grapes . . . There probably weren’t any crumbs, then?” With my luck she was about to say that my children were doing their own version of the Italian wine-making ritual: crushing them into the playroom rug with their bare feet while singing bacchanalian songs.

  “No crumbs,” she said. “But rules are rules. And if other babysitters see one child eating, then . . .” She trailed off, as if the horrors were too graphic to voice aloud. “The sign clearly says ‘No Eating,’ and I’d like to avoid another chicken and rice incident.” She nodded gravely at me.

  Mercifully, the elevator doors parted, and Emily began to steer her enormous stroller out of the cab.

  “I’ll, uh, speak to Bonnie,” I muttered.

  “Wonderful! See you soon,” she sang, and then she trotted off down the hall, leaving me in front of my own apartment door. I could hear pleasant voices and music inside. That was good—better than shrieks of hunger. I turned my key in the lock and pushed open the door, to the sound of laughter. Still carrying my shopping bag, I walked into the dining room to find everyone sitting at the table. My husband, Luke, looked up at me, his face tan and handsome in . . . Was that candlelight?

  “There she is,” he said. “C’mon in, sweetie. Take a seat.”

  I hesitated on the threshold, feeling inexplicably like a gate crasher. The tableau before me was startling. They were already the perfect picture of a family at table. There was Luke in his usual spot at the head. But Bonnie, our Scottish au pair, sat in my place, her back to me. Bonnie, who had the voice of Mary Poppins but the looks of a willowy African model, wore a nice sweater instead of her usual T-shirt. It fit rather more tightly over her slim frame than usual.

  On either side were the fair heads of Jasper, my kindergartner, and Wylie, age two. Their dinner was in progress—no, it was practically over. Their plates held just remnants. They didn’t even look up at my arrival, because Bonnie was telling them a story.

  “And to this day people still say”—she paused dramatically—“that a mermaid can be heard crying there, by the rocks.” Bonnie picked up her wineglass, from the exact spot on the table where mine usually sat, and drained it. “Hullo, Julia!” she said, swiveling around gaily. “I have made a Scottish delicacy to go with the chicken.”

  “Pancakes!” hollered Wylie. “But Bonnie say no syrup.”

  “Potato cakes, luv, don’t need syrup. And it hasn’t slowed you down even a wee bit.” Smiling, she wiped Wylie’s mouth with her own napkin.

  “Can we have these every night?” Jasper asked.

  Whether or not he sensed my discomfort, Luke beckoned to me. Then he reached for another dining chair, from where it stood against the wall of our tiny dining room, and made space for me between himself and Jasper. “Sit right here,” he said. “I’ll get you a wineglass.” He started to get up.

  “I’ll get it,” I told him. “I have to put this away.” I held up my shopping bag.

  At the door to the kitchen, I stopped. Every surface was trashed. Two mixing bowls were piled on the counter, bits of potato and some kind of batter dripping down the side of one. A greasy frying pan sat on the stove. The cooking oil stood open with no sign of its cap anywhere.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying hard not to get upset.

  From the cabinet, I pulled a wooden cutting board. On its worn surface I balanced a wineglass and my ingredients from Russo’s. I carried everything carefully back to the table and kissed Jasper’s blond brush cut as I sat down.

  The chicken had already been thoroughly enjoyed. Rather than pick at its carcass, I turned my attention to slicing the crusty baguette. For the boys, I always bought whole wheat sandwich bread. But in my heart I loved a crusty artisanal loaf like this one. Whole grains be damned.

  Luke’s face was flushed from laughing at some joke of Bonnie’s that I had just missed. He put one hand on my knee. “So tell me,” he said quietly. “How was your day?”

  I sliced the ball of fresh cheese into milky discs as I considered the question. “It’s actually quite hard to say.”

  “Meaning?” he asked, tossing a shred of the cheese into his mouth. “Good stuff you got here.”

  “Is it? Made today in Brooklyn. Let’s see . . . On the positive side of today’s balance sheet, I gave a talk to a big parenting group in Park Slope. And I killed, as they say. But on the other hand, ANKST returned my check.”

  “Who?”

  “ANKST. It stands for All-Natural Kid Stuff Tradeshow. The one on which I’d pinned all my hopes for bagging Whole Foods as a buyer.”

  “Oh, the trade show,” Luke said, sipping his wine. He was quiet for a moment. “I guess there’s always next year?” he suggested.

  I looked into Luke’s blue eyes. He never panicked, and I loved him for that. But as a consequence, it was difficult to tell when he was really worried. And we couldn’t discuss it at the dinner table, in front of God and everybody.

  I took a sip of my wine. Luke and I both knew it was a stretch to pretend that I could go another whole year bleeding the family’s nest egg for the ego trip of my so-called business. What’s worse, Luke’s bank had just been acquired by an even larger one. Though Luke had always been a valued employee, there was talk that up to a hundred people in the technology department would get pink slips.

  I laid a white slab of mozzarella onto a slice of baguette. I sprinkled it with a quick turn of the pepper grinder. “Who would like one of these?” I offered.

  “Me!” Jasper said at once. I completed the open-faced sandwich with just a drizzle of olive oil and handed it to him. “Yum,” he said obligingly. Jasper had always been a great eater—a boy after my own heart.

  “Me!” screamed Wylie, who unfailingly followed his brother, with varying results.

  I made the same again for Wylie, even though he wasn’t yet a fan of cheese.

  A study I once read concl
uded that a child had to be offered a new food ten times before it was clear whether or not he liked it. Ten! Who could blame a mother for giving up on brussels sprouts after two or three attempts? I had a good laugh, trying to imagine the study in progress. I pictured scientists in white lab coats, steaming broccoli for the seventh time while making notes. “Subject threw plate off table after sixteen seconds.” And I thought my job was weird.

  Predictably, Wylie had some trouble with his open-face hors d’oeuvre. I’d hoped that the softness of the mozzarella might win him over. But it was not to be.

  “Too crunchy!” he moaned, and I realized he meant the bread.

  “You just need a way in,” I told him calmly. “Bite the edge hard, just once, and you’ll get to the soft stuff inside.”

  But it was almost bedtime, and Wylie was tired. I could see it coming, the evening meltdown. Big tears squeezed from his eyes and headed down his chubby cheeks. “Toooooo crunchyyyy!” he wailed, dropping his head. Then the slab of mozzarella began to slide off the bread. “Fall off!” he screamed. “It fall off!”

  At that moment my entire day came full circle. Surely Zamwiches never caused a mother so much angst.

  “Oh, honey,” I said. I caught Wylie’s kicking, sausagelike feet in my hands and rubbed them. He was still wearing his favorite pair of striped socks, which I’d put on him that morning. It seemed like ages ago. “I think it’s time for pajamas now,” I said, giving the bedtime cue. I had not yet eaten a bite.

  Luke stood up, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I got it,” he offered. “You eat.” He scooped Wylie off his seat, despite loud protests, and headed for the bedroom.

  “He’s tired,” I said, as if it weren’t obvious to the three of us left at the table.

  “Surely,” Bonnie agreed. “He skipped his nap today to play with Sadie in the playroom.”

  I winced. “Actually, Bonnie, I saw Emily in the elevator.” I should have stopped there. But unfortunately I went on. “She said something about food in the playroom again.”

  “That b—” she caught herself. But her eyes flashed at me from across the table. “That is just unfair! Did you know that she had a security camera installed in the playroom? She just wants me to feel uncomfortable, you know. It isn’t food she’s against, it’s . . .”

  I was terrified that Bonnie was about to utter a racial slur.

  “Babysitters!” she spat. Then she took her plate, and Wylie’s, and strode into the kitchen, where she deposited them in the sink with a loud crash. Her door slammed shut, and I could hear her dialing the first of many expensive, long-distance calls to Scotland.

  I closed my eyes. I never should have brought it up. Instead, I should have thanked Bonnie for making dinner, which is not part of her usual duties. But now it was too late.

  So Jasper and I were left alone at the table. He was polishing off his bread and mozzarella, seemingly oblivious to the fireworks. I watched him scrape his plate with the crust, trying to catch any drops of olive oil, and I smiled. If only those nervous mothers of toddlers could see how an active school-aged boy eats.

  If you serve it, they will come.

  “So,” I whispered to my sweet kindergartner, “Bonnie’s potato cakes? Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Not cool like Batman is cool,” he said, his mouth full of bread. “But good. Put salt on it.”

  With my fingers, I pinched the last potato cake from the greasy platter. It was cold—surely they’d been more appetizing right out of the frying pan. I salted and peppered it. I chewed.

  “Not bad,” I said. Then again, that was the minimum flavor yield from frying a potato in any kind of grease.

  “Wylie!” came Luke’s shout from the direction of the bathroom. Then we heard a crash and the sound of little feet escaping justice.

  A moment later Luke poked his head into the dining room. “He’s not in here, is he?”

  “Maybe in my closet?” suggested Jasper helpfully. “What did he do this time?” There was a hint of glee in the question.

  “He squeezed toothpaste into a big pile in the sink.”

  “Again?” I failed to keep the sound of exasperation out of my voice.

  “I only turned my back for a split second,” Luke said, shaking his head. He disappeared toward the bedrooms. “Wylie, we’re going to clean up the sink and then you’re going to bed. Without a story.”

  I winced, knowing more wailing would follow.

  “Read story!” shouted Wylie from his hiding place somewhere toward the back of the apartment.

  “No!”

  “Dadddddyyy!” It was a shriek. “I throw you in the barbage!” he threatened.

  Jasper giggled.

  I put my hand on his back. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go put on your pj’s. If you’re quick about it, I’ll have time to read you the knight book.”

  An hour later I stood scraping plates. I plucked a bit of chicken Jasper had left behind and popped it into my mouth. On particularly frantic nights, those stolen leftovers made up a pathetic portion of my meal. I surveyed the ruined kitchen. The potato cake batter had hardened into a starchy substance resembling brick mortar. As I worked, Luke placed his warm hands on my shoulders and began to massage them. I dropped the sponge in the sink and closed my eyes.

  “Will you have a gin and tonic with me?” Luke asked. “Or do I have to throw you in the barbage?”

  “I choose number one,” I said.

  “Excellent choice!” From the high cabinet he took the gin bottle and then began to dig around in the refrigerator for a lime.

  This part of the day had long been my favorite. When we’d hired Bonnie, I’d been worried that a strange adult in the apartment would strain my already limited time alone with my husband. The couple of hours after the boys were asleep, and before I collapsed with exhaustion, were the only time Luke and I got to talk. We liked to put our feet on the coffee table and have a drink—alone. I had feared that having a twenty-year-old Scottish lassie in the room would torpedo our casual intimacy.

  I shouldn’t have worried. Within weeks, Bonnie had discovered the Williamsburg music scene. Most evenings, as the rest of us sat down to dinner, Bonnie would kiss the boys and then vanish on to the subway.

  I resumed wiping down the counters. “So you caved in and read him a story after all?”

  “Of course,” he admitted. “And his eyes were rolling back in his head by the time Sam-I-Am ate the green eggs. Then he went down without a peep.”

  “Nice work, honey,” I said as I sprayed hot sudsy water all over the pasty substance in the mixing bowl. “But Sam-I-Am is the other guy. The pusher.”

  “Oh. Whatever.”

  I shut the water off suddenly. “You know, that should never have worked,” I said forcefully.

  “What shouldn’t?”

  “Green Eggs and Ham! What a loopy, drug-induced story. It’s genius, of course, but just think of the marketing pitch: ‘Buy my book about a lumpy guy trying to feed unnaturally colored food to another weirdo, in rhyme!’ I mean—really! ‘Could you, would you, with a goat?’ Oh—and it’s for children.” I scrubbed the bowl rather more violently than was necessary. “Gosh! Let’s go ahead and print ten million copies! I’ll bet even Whole Foods carries it.”

  Luke gave me a worried frown. “Honey, I think you need to unwind. How about we go to Vermont for the weekend?”

  I sighed. “That sounds like a great idea.”

  To: nadja@parkslopeparents.org

  From: juliaschild@gmail.com

  Re: Mac and cheese for River

  Dear Nadja,

  Thanks so much for the opportunity to speak yesterday. It was a pleasure to discuss some of my favorite topics with the lovely mothers of Park Slope.

  Here’s the recipe I promised you. It is a real time-saver—you don’t boil the pasta first! You simply bake the uncooked pasta in the milk and cheeses, and it works like a charm. The milk provides the liquid and the protein and calcium, which I think is pretty neat. One thin
g, though—it’s better if you don’t do the math on how many fat grams are in here. Because you’re going to want to eat this yourself, and because that way lies the abyss.

  Enjoy,

  Julia

  Mac and Cheese with Plenty of Dairy

  Cooking Time: 70 minutes (10 minutes prep, 60 minutes unattended—giddyap!)

  Ingredients 1 cup organic cottage cheese (not low fat)

  2 cups organic whole milk

  1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

  Pinch Hungarian paprika

  16 ounces shredded cheddar cheese (about four cups)

  8 ounces dry pasta

  Instructions

  Preheat your oven to 375°F. Coat the inside of a 2-quart covered casserole with cooking spray.

  In a blender, combine cottage cheese, milk, mustard, and paprika. Allow your toddler to blend until smooth. (I’ve never met a toddler who didn’t have five minutes to operate heavy machinery.)

  In a large mixing bowl, combine dry pasta and the shredded cheese. Pour the milk mixture over it. Allow your toddler to stir the mixture gently.

  Clean up from the toddler’s stirring.

  Pour the mixture into the casserole. Cover and bake for 30 minutes.

  Uncover and bake for another 20 or 30 minutes until brown and bubbly.

  Cool for 15 minutes and enjoy!

  Chapter 3

  My mother was a harried, indifferent cook who looked upon dinnertime as a chore. We ate plenty of tuna casserole at our house—the sort that’s made from cream of mushroom soup. And vegetables always came out of a can.

  But my father’s aunt Odile was French. She taught me to clean leeks when I was four, standing at her sink on a wooden crate. She taught me to make polenta at five. I stirred the coq au vin when I was six. We made duck à l’orange when I was seven. By eight, we were blowtorching the tops of crèmes brûlées in ramekins. It was the seventies, when women were supposed to eschew cooking for liberation. But to me cooking was liberation. And I cooked, in my bell bottoms, singing along with Gloria Gaynor on the radio, which Aunt Odile called “the wireless.” Those were my fondest memories of childhood. Great Aunt Odile died when I was fifteen. But I can still picture her beautiful kitchen with its enormous farmhouse table and rustic apron sink.