Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “Clues in the cranberries,” she said as we pulled up in front of the cottage. “It’s still just food, but it’s interesting.”

  I opened the gate and led her into the garden. It was green and still. Squirrels chased each other across the lawn, and the flowering vine twining over the door gave off a honeyed scent. “What a change from Berkeley!” said Mom, and I began to have some hope.

  I stuck my key into the lock and prayed, uncertain about what I would find when it opened. Michael was so irritated by this invasion that I would not have been surprised to discover clothes strewn across the house I had so carefully cleaned. But when the door swung open, I saw a vase of flowers that had not been there when I’d left. The hall smelled like furniture polish; the floor gleamed, and not a thing was out of place. Michael had even put a little note on Mom’s pillow telling her he couldn’t wait to get home from work and meet her.

  He came bustling into the house an hour later, filled with good cheer and charm. He kissed her cheek and said brazenly, “You’re so much prettier than your pictures!” My whole being flooded with relief; in this mood he was irresistible to any woman. I went into the kitchen to get cheese and crackers, and when I emerged he was bending toward my mother, teasing her about having waited so long to come and meet him. I went back for the wine, and as I stood in the kitchen pulling the cork I heard him say how happy he was.

  “Who ever thought I’d be living like this?” he said. Even from the kitchen I knew that he was nodding toward the garden. “I had nothing when I met Ruth,” he confessed. “My best friend told me that if I really wanted to be with her, I’d have to grow up, give up freelance writing, and get a real job.”

  “And how did you do that?” Mom asked.

  I hadn’t heard this before. I stopped to listen. “I sat down one day and listed my options,” he said. “Television seemed like the obvious choice.”

  “But you’d never worked in television before!”

  “I was a journalist. I had made films. I didn’t think it could be that different. I decided where I wanted to work and applied at all the others. By the time I went to KRON I had figured out how to pass the test, and they hired me as a substitute news writer. Within a couple of months they had given me a full-time job.”

  Michael had told me none of this. He had simply called one day and said, “I’ve got a job. Now will you throw in with me?”

  “Once I was inside,” he continued, “it was easy to become a producer.”

  “And you like it?” Mom asked.

  “It’s the most exciting work I’ve ever done,” he replied.

  “Oh yes,” I said, coming back into the living room and handing her a glass of wine. “Very exciting. A few days ago I picked up the phone and a deep voice said, ‘Tell your nosy boyfriend we know where he lives. Tell him he’d better stop looking into matters that are not his business.’ ”

  “Your work is dangerous!” said Mom happily.

  “Not really,” said Michael. “I’m doing a story about police corruption in a little town near here. They make threats, but they don’t kill reporters.”

  “Police corruption,” Mom repeated in a thrilled voice. I could almost hear the story she was formulating for her friends. It would begin, “Ruthie’s new beau does really useful work . . .”

  * * *

  We took Mom to Chez Panisse for dinner. Alice had set little nosegays of wildflowers all around the table, and she sent us a bottle of champagne. As people turned to see who was getting this special treatment, Mom puffed with pleasure.

  “No steak tonight, Mom.” I smiled at her. She smiled back and then, simultaneously, our smiles faded. A cloud descended over the table as we both remembered the last time we had eaten together at Chez Panisse, and with whom.

  Michael stepped valiantly into the silence. “Cheerio,” he said, clinking both of our glasses, “have a nice visit.” The champagne smelled like spring and tasted like icy bubbles. The oysters were cold, with that deep, mysteriously ancient flavor they have when they first come out of the ocean.

  Alice had made mushroom soup so intense and untamed that it was exciting rather than soothing, like taking a walk in the wilderness. I was somewhere else, lost in the flavors, when Alice wafted over to the table to inquire how we had liked the grilled wild duck and poached pears.

  “Fabulous,” breathed Mom. Alice beamed and turned to me. “I had lunch today in a restaurant I want to take you to. They grow all their own food!”

  “Everything?” I asked. “How big is their garden?”

  “Huge,” she said, envy in her voice. “They’re growing mulberries, fava beans, cardoons, and wild artichokes. They’ve planted nine different kinds of peppers. You should see the herbs! They raise rabbits and chickens, and they milk their own goats to make cheese.”

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Far,” she admitted. “Boonville.”

  “That’s almost to Mendocino!” I said.

  “True,” she said dreamily. “But today I had the most amazing BLT.”

  “You drove three hours for a BLT?” I asked.

  “It was a perfect sandwich!” she exclaimed, with such passion that we all put down our forks and listened, really listened, to her.

  “Imagine this,” she said in the same tone that you might use with children when you were about to read a fairy tale. “They bake the bread, right there, that morning, so it’s just a couple of hours old. They make their own mayonnaise too, from the eggs of their own chickens. Have you ever tasted an egg that was just laid?”

  We hadn’t.

  “A fresh egg doesn’t taste like anything else on earth,” she said. “It’s a real treat; once you’ve had one you can never go back. You should see the color of the yolks! Bright orange, which makes the mayonnaise absolutely golden. They pick the tomatoes and the little lettuces at the last possible moment, so when you eat the sandwich they’re still warm from the sun.”

  “And the bacon?” I asked. “I suppose they smoke that too. Right before they serve the sandwich?”

  “No,” she admitted, and I could tell that it cost her something. “They wanted to make their own bacon, but they got the wrong kinds of pigs. So they have to get their ham and bacon from a farmer down the road. But when it’s layered with those ripe, warm tomatoes . . . you can’t imagine how good it tastes.”

  I could. “I’ve known Vernon for a long time,” she went on, her voice deepening. “Vernon’s got wonderful taste. One year he made me dinner for my birthday . . .”

  An old boyfriend! I thought, as she began describing a meal that was both earthy and elegant. “There was a raw beef salad and an old white Margaux, which is still one of my favorite combinations,” she said. “And now he’s planning to do this special Thanksgiving dinner that sounds so interesting. He’s found a medieval recipe where you kill the turkey, pluck it really fast, and get it into the oven before rigor mortis sets in. He showed me the drawings from an old manuscript. I’d love to try it.”

  “I think we should go there tomorrow!” my mother announced.

  “Good idea,” I said. It would give us something to do. “It sounds like a place I should write about.”

  * * *

  “I don’t envy you the trip,” said Michael as he went off to work the next morning. “Three hours each way, locked up in a car with her. I’d much rather spend time with corrupt policemen.”

  “Well, at least she doesn’t want to kill me,” I said.

  “Don’t kid yourself, honey,” he said, going out the door.

  * * *

  “Do you think Doug might want to come with us?” Mom asked as we were leaving.

  “Oh, I don’t think—” I began.

  “We don’t have to tell Michael,” Mom added mischievously, and before I could stop her she had dialed Doug’s number.

  “I told him we’d pick him up,” she reported when the call was finished. “I’m dying to see his place.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “Then y
ou can tell me how much nicer it is than mine.”

  “No, dear,” she said with seeming sincerity, “it couldn’t be.”

  * * *

  Doug had left the downstairs door unlocked. His loft was above an old hardware store, and as we walked up the stairs we inhaled the clean scent of paint and wood chips. “It reminds me of that place on the Bowery where you lived right after you were married,” Mom said. I took a deep breath and realized it did smell exactly the same. It gave me an eerie feeling, as if Doug had just erased the time we had spent together and begun again.

  But when Doug opened the door I had the rush of instant gladness I always felt when I saw him. He was wearing clean blue jeans and the shirt with the peacock blue stripes I had given him for his thirty-third birthday. His cheeks were very pink. He kissed Mom, easily, and then me, less easily.

  I watched Doug showing my mother the plans for Sound Garden, the piece he was building up in Seattle. He had become more articulate, and she was clearly impressed.

  “And will you be spending Thanksgiving in Seattle?” she asked as we got into the car.

  “Oh no,” he said. “My girlfriend and I are going to cook in my studio.” I felt a physical pang as he said that, and Mom gave me a sidelong glance, trying to see how I had taken it. “Actually,” he went on, and I could feel his eyes slide toward me, “I’m going to be doing the cooking. It will be my first turkey.”

  I struggled to betray nothing. “What are you making?” I asked.

  “The usual,” he said, “just the traditional Thanksgiving dinner. You know: turkey, stuffing, gravy, potatoes.”

  “Are you making mincemeat pie?” I asked.

  “I might,” he said.

  * * *

  From the outside, The New Boonville Hotel wasn’t much: a two-story white clapboard building with deep porches on both floors that gave it the air of a nineteenth-century boardinghouse. “I don’t see a garden,” said Mom, sounding disappointed.

  “Give them a chance, Miriam,” said Doug. “It must be in back.”

  Inside, the first impression was sunlight and new wood, but as you stood in the entranceway the details began to come into focus. Despite the jars of jams and wildflowers perched along the windowsills, the restaurant had a pared-down elegance. A fire burned in a stone hearth, and the walls were filled with art. Looking up, I discovered little surprises among the paintings: an artist’s clock, and a framed bit of calligraphy signed Gregory Corso.

  “Nice,” said Doug.

  “Thanks,” said a rumpled man, ambling into the room, his long black hair strewn with strands of hay.

  “You must be Vernon,” I said, thinking that he did not seem handsome enough to have ever been Alice’s boyfriend.

  “I’m hungry,” said my mother petulantly. “It was a long drive.”

  “Why don’t you sit down and let me get you a drink,” said Vernon, leading us to a table. He smiled ingratiatingly at her, and I began to see what Alice had. “I’ll bring you a little something while you look at the menu. Then you can go out to see the garden.” He pulled out Mom’s chair and she smiled, almost flirting.

  Vernon brought a long, slim bottle and filled our glasses with cool, pale wine. “Smell it before you take a sip,” he said. I stuck my nose into the glass and the light scent of spring flowers came drifting up. “Gewürztraminer!” I said. “The perfect afternoon wine.”

  “It’s from Navarro,” he said. “They’re our neighbors. I love being able to serve the wine right where it’s grown. You’ll see; it goes perfectly with our food.”

  Vernon disappeared for a minute, and when he returned he was carrying three plates. “It’s all made here,” he said. One contained slices of warm bread spread with fresh, creamy goat cheese sprinkled with fresh herbs. He set down the second saying, “I picked these tomatoes just now and splashed some of our own vinegar on top.” The smell of the vinegar rose up, lively, prickly, just a little bit sweet. “And these,” he said, setting down the third plate, “are grilled duck livers. They’re our own ducks too.”

  The food was simple, true and good. Doug took a bite of the velvety liver and said suddenly, “I don’t know why, but this reminds me of that first meal we had on Crete.” He touched my hand.

  “It does,” I said dreamily, filling my mouth with the fragrant cheese. “It tastes of the land.”

  “Why don’t you children go look at the garden?” Mom suggested. “I’m very happy just sitting here.”

  We went out, following the sound of the ducks. They were cooing at the bottom of the garden, strutting around the silvery leaves of the wild artichokes. The beds stretched off into the distance, all the vegetables edged with flowers. “What are those?” Doug asked, pointing at great purply plants raising their leaves toward the sun. When he lowered his arm he took my hand. A thrill went through me, and then I settled in, anchored to him.

  “Amaranth,” I said. The herbs gave their fragrance to the air. Bees droned sleepily. The sun was very hot. A lazy curl of applewood smoke wafted across the garden. I half-shut my eyes and rainbows danced in front of me. I leaned against Doug and said, “Let’s never leave.”

  “Mmm,” he said, holding me tight. We aren’t making this easy, I thought as we stood there, dreaming of the past. And then I had an image of Michael, standing on the hill looking down at us, and a chord of guilt resonated through my chest.

  We went back through the kitchen, a large, airy, open room that smelled like wild yeast and raspberries. Glasses filled with herbs and flowers danced among the shelves, which were lined with jars of preserved fruits. Big wooden barrels of homemade vinegar sat under a counter that was heaped high with vegetables. A pie cooled in the window. Just inside the door a cat lay curled, purring happily.

  “I could live here,” I said.

  “Welcome,” said a woman with short black hair. We both jumped; we hadn’t seen her standing by the stove. “I spend eighteen hours a day in here, so I try to make it nice.”

  “Eighteen hours a day?” I asked.

  “I’m Charlene,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and sticking one out. I surveyed her as I took it: Her hair looked as if she had chopped it off with a carving knife, and her hands were chapped. She was wearing a green T-shirt that gave her face an unattractive pallor, and her feet were thrust into chipped wooden clogs. She seemed like a woman who had not glanced in a mirror in months. She looked exhausted.

  “When do you take time off?” I asked.

  “I don’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “I haven’t been off the property in a year and a half.”

  “Maybe we should reconsider that plan,” Doug whispered in my ear.

  * * *

  Back at the table, my mother was all smiles. “I’ve been having the best time,” she announced. “Vernon’s been telling me all about the restaurant. It’s an absolutely fascinating story.” She twinkled flirtatiously up at Vernon. “May I tell them?” He inclined his head.

  “Once upon a time,” she began, “Vernon and Charlene met at a party at Chez Panisse. They discovered that they both had the very same dream. They’ve been together ever since. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “Uh, let me go see about your lunch,” said Vernon, excusing himself.

  “They are totally self-sufficient!” said Mom. “I think this is the most wonderful restaurant.”

  “But all you’ve had is a little goat cheese!” I said.

  “I know the food’s going to be wonderful,” she said. “I just know it.”

  And, of course, it was. We began with a deep green vegetable purée sprinkled with herbs. It was followed by pasta that looked like a Jackson Pollock painting on a plate: The noodles were as bright as marigolds, and they were tossed with goat butter and tangled with deep purple hyssop flowers. Then there was a sun-warmed salad, followed by duck grilled to the color of polished mahogany and surrounded by Pinot Noir grapes. A plate of new potatoes sautéed with butter, tart apples, and mint sat on the side.

  After
ward we had raspberry ice cream that was the color of a Renaissance sunset. I held it in my mouth, loath to let the flavor vanish. Just churned, it did not taste as if it had been made by human hands. The cream seemed straight from nature, from happy cows who had spent their lives lapping up berries and sugar.

  “This is the best meal I’ve ever had,” said Mom.

  “Thank you,” said Vernon, who did not know that Mom thought every good meal was the best she’d ever eaten. He held out a plate of tiny apple turnovers. “Charlene just baked these.” They were still warm, and they crumbled in your mouth when you took a bite.

  “Wasn’t it wonderful?” Mom kept saying as we drove home.

  “Yes,” I said, still back in the garden with Doug’s hand in mine. “And you didn’t even get to meet the gardeners. They go out at night with flashlights looking for slugs; they don’t believe in pesticides, they don’t believe in hybrids, and they do amazing things with plants. Like the tomatoes: After they begin to leaf out, the gardeners bury them in dirt again so that they get a double root system. They say the tomatoes taste better like that.”

  “And they do,” said Mom, a true convert. “That was the best tomato I ever ate.” But the garden was fading, it was beginning to rain, and by the time we could see the San Francisco skyline, all the sunshine had evaporated.

  I dropped Doug in front of his house and we kissed, lightly, lips brushing. Over Mom’s head we made longing, anguished faces at each other, and I suddenly remembered Doug saying his girlfriend could always tell when we had been together. “I’ll see you in my dreams tonight,” he said. “In my dreams we’re not apart.”

  “Mine too,” I murmured, thinking again how difficult we made things for ourselves. It must be so much simpler when you hated each other after you broke up.

  Doug turned up his collar and faced into the rain. “I think I’ll go get some bourbon to chase away the chill,” he said as he headed down the block.

  * * *

  “Listen,” said Michael.

  “What?” I asked, rolling over sleepily. I peered at the clock. “It’s three A.M. Go back to sleep.”