by Suzan Colon
Matilde sighed. Her husband’s word was law in his home, but tonight she was unrepentant. She ground a little cinnamon on the mashed apples and said, “We have this.”
“For a week!” Peter said. “Matilde—”
“We will have these vases long after our stomachs are full again,” Matilde said calmly. She pulled herself up to her full, impressive height, picked up a knife, and began carefully slicing the loaf. “So we eat bread and applesauce for a week … It will not kill us.”
• • •
DECEMBER 1961
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
“Why would you waste so much money on cherries?” Charlie asked Matilda when she presented him with a small cache of winter bings.
“Because,” she said, knowing that if she had to explain it, there was no point.
After that, Matilda shared them with her daughter, Carolyn, who understood the importance of a dark red cherry in the middle of winter: the snap of the skin, the tart juice tasting of summers past and the summer to come.
At the time, Matilda was working in the heart of Columbus Circle at the Coliseum convention center—her business cards, which were pink, read MATILDA E. KALLAHER, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT FOR SALES. Carolyn had just started modeling, and she occasionally worked at Coliseum expos like the auto show. Matilda’s boss would look at the teenaged blend of Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly and say, “Mrs. K., your daughter should be in college, not draped over a car.” But Matilda was convinced that Carolyn was going to be a big star.
Carolyn herself wasn’t that hot on modeling, especially after a fortune-teller at one of the Coliseum shows said she was going to die on a photo shoot in Africa at the age of thirty-two. Matilda waved it away. “Just don’t go to Africa.”
“Okay, but if anything happens to me, promise you’ll do my makeup,” Carolyn said. “Don’t let one of those funeral home cosmeticians do it—they’re terrible.”
“Same goes for me,” Matilda said. “Nobody does my eyebrows but you.”
“Deal.” They shook on it and went for their regular visit to the fruit vendor around the corner.
For an assignment in her high school creative writing class, Carolyn had written an essay about one of these early evening trips that took place the previous spring. She described her mother as being wistful for Paris, a place she’d never been to and, though they didn’t know it at the time, would never see. The indulgence du jour was jumbo-sized prunes, and they ate them out of the paper bag as they walked—something people just didn’t do back then. Especially not ladies, whose proper attire included gloves, even in the summertime. As un-done as it was, two blond women almost six feet tall doing it attracted even more attention. Carolyn (who described herself as being the more conventional one) suggested putting the fruit away for later, but Matilda told her not to be silly. “It shows a lot of poise if we can walk along Fifth Avenue eating prunes,” she said. Carolyn laughed. “Mother, you are a hobo at heart.”
One night in the middle of December, the fruit vendor had the winter cherries. They were pricey all right, but Matilda didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t that cold out, so mother and daughter walked to the park and sat on a bench to enjoy their extravagance.
“Is there anything better in the world,” Matilda said, “than being in Manhattan in Central Park and eating cherries in winter?”
• • •
Matilde gave the fine porcelain vases to Carrie when she got married. Carrie gave them to her daughter, Matilda. And now those vases are sitting on the counter of an antique breakfront in my mother’s kitchen.
Nana’s winter cherries weren’t as expensive as the vases, but they meant the same thing: She spent a little more to keep herself from feeling like less. And when Mom was down to her last twenty and a paycheck wasn’t coming until the end of the week, she’d sing, “We need a little Christmas / Right this very minute,” and we’d go out for dinner.
We might have Wienerschnitzel at Café Hindenburg, one of ten or so similar restaurants in our neighborhood, which was once called Germantown because of the many German immigrants who settled there, including Nana’s grandfather Peter. Or we’d go to the Flaming Embers for a $4.99 steak-and-potato dinner. We might even get a cherry pie, which we’d take home and eat, bite by bite, over the next few days.
The women in my family have certain traits: height, prominent noses, and the ability to rationalize spending extra, just once in a while, when there is no extra to be spent. Because. I got some of their height and all of the nose, but I thought that last characteristic was missing in me. It wasn’t; I just didn’t realize that it only wakes up when we begin to measure ourselves by money, or the lack of it. It’s not a reflexive kick of denial about having less. It’s a deep breath reminding us not to become miserly in spirit. We may be broke, but we’re not poor.
The French raisins are a revelation. They look and taste like jewels. Nana would have loved them.
11
WHAT PRICE BEAUTY?
YOUR MAKEUP AT WORK: Dewy. Natural eyebrows, and if penciled, carefully, carefully—never obviously. If you use eyeliner, only on upper lid, never lower. Never go without lipstick; it only makes you look washed out. Nothing looks better than a slightly rosy red mouth.
HOW YOU SMELL AT WORK: No perfume—ever. Baby oil and talcum powder for you. Delicious.
From “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!”
by Matilda Kallaher
• • •
Nana was a showstopper. She fit the stereotypical grandma profile in only one respect: her white hair. But she wore it stylishly short, with a Marilyn Monroe wave swooping down over one eye. She was incredibly chic—one of the first things people said about her, and still do, is how elegant she was. You’d never know she came from a family so perpetually broke she’d nearly starved to death, and that was the point.
When I was five I wanted to be fifty-five so I could look like Nana. She would let me wear her dresses and her jewelry, and I couldn’t wait for the day my hair would turn white like hers. She wasn’t a beauty—that was my mother, and even as a kid I sensed I’d never be as traffic-stoppingly gorgeous as Mom was. What Nana had was more attainable: a sense of style. She’d taken what she had and made the most of it.
She started with fine manners. “If you want to get along with everybody at a cocktail party,” she told my mother, “don’t discuss sex, politics, or religion.” (Unless a party was dull, that is; then she’d take gentle swipes at both politics and religion. “When all else fails,” she told Mom, “kick the chandelier.”) Then she dressed impeccably, though she never owned expensive clothes. She took note of what was in fashion and found something similar for less money at bargain department stores like Loehmann’s and Alexander’s, or she stuck with classics and let inexpensive costume jewelry reflect the current trend. Last and most important, Nana made sure everything she wore fit her hourglass figure perfectly.
After a trip to Alexander’s, she’d stop at Papaya King, a hot dog stand, for two dogs with mustard and sauerkraut and a papaya drink. Then she would treat herself to a taxi home. (“She saved money on clothes and food, but she lived rich,” says my godmother Barbara.)
After she turned fifty, Nana wouldn’t wear black scarves or tops: “It drains the life out of a woman’s face,” she said. She never, ever went anywhere without her lipstick (shocking pink was her color), advice she shared with young secretaries in that article she wrote in the 1960s called “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!” She did her manicures herself, and she always cut her own hair.
• • •
I used to get my hair cut by a stylist—once they start using that title instead of “hairdresser” they’re charging serious cash, and this one was no exception. She billed three hundred dollars for a cut, and I never would have gone to her if I’d had to pay that much money. But I got a discount for having been a loyal customer since the days when her fee was a mere two hundred, and another because I put in a good word for her with
beauty editors in the magazine industry. My defense for the still-high expenditure was that with my curly/wavy/frizzy hair I needed an expert. Also, I saved money on hair color since I was letting my grays come in, hoping to fulfill my childhood dream of having hair like Nana’s.
I got no such discounts on skincare products, but I had sensitive skin that needed two special cleansers, one with pineapple and papaya for morning, and a creamy one for evening, along with an oil-free moisturizer for summer and a heavier one for winter. After that, what was another seventeen dollars for a good, alcohol-free toner?
My signature scent was an eau de toilette that goes for a relatively inexpensive fifty bucks per ounce. I changed it a few summers ago, and one day Nathan hugged me and suddenly looked sad. “I didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You smell different.” I ran back to the perfume counter and bought two bottles of the old fragrance.
Every six weeks or so was Eyebrow Day at the magazine, when an expert would come into the office to tweeze and shape our brows. As with most questionable indulgences, the first taste was free, but after that I cheerfully handed over forty dollars every time the plucker lady came to visit.
During especially hectic deadline weeks, I might treat myself to a massage at the health club that was very conveniently located in our office building.
Doing these things, and having the money to do them in the first place, made me feel like I’d arrived. But there was a limit; I always did my own pedicures. I didn’t see the point in spending twenty bucks at the salon when I did a better job myself.
• • •
DECEMBER 2008
HUDSON COUNTY, NEW JERSEY
Just as my eating habits changed when I stopped having lunch in the company cafeteria, my beauty routine has been modified somewhat now that I’m self-employed (which sounds so much better than unemployed). In December I had one last salon hurrah with a hairdresser—note title change—who charged half of what my old stylist did even after my discounts. These days I wait until I get the five-dollars-off coupon at the drugstore before I buy my new, cheap skincare products, which, to my surprise and chagrin, work just as well as the expensive stuff. (Mom is also cutting back wherever she can, but she’s not going along with me on this one: “I’d rather go without food than my face cream.”) Every other week or so is Eyebrow Day at my home office, where I pluck anything that strays outside of what I remember the expert’s outline was for my brows. I have bangs now, so no one can see them anyway if I make a mistake. I still make appointments for massages, and they’re very conveniently located in my building—right on our couch. While Nathan watches Frontline, he’ll grab my home-pedicured feet and knead my arches and toes for a while. It’s heavenly, and far more pleasurable than being Rolfed by a stranger.
Unfortunately, my hair is getting shaggy right around the same time that my cat Tootsie’s teeth are about to rot right out of her head.
In the past, these two events would have been completely unrelated. Now, with things being what they are, I can make an appointment with my hairdresser, or I can make an appointment with my veterinarian. But I feel like I can’t afford both.
(I pause here for a moment for a perspective check. There are a lot of people who can’t afford to get their own teeth fixed right now, much less their animals’. I feel very fortunate that we have enough money to keep all the teeth in our house, whether human or feline, present and accounted for.)
Of course, there’s no decision to be made. I’d give up my hair appointments forever and become the Wild Woman of Borneo before I’d let my cat be in pain or even have to forgo the crunchy kibble she likes so much. Nor will I repurpose my monthly donations to the ASPCA and the local food bank for this expense. I’ve had to cut down on the amount I give, but I refuse to cut charitable donations out completely. There have been too many stories of pets left behind in abandoned homes and last year’s food bank donors becoming this year’s recipients. Not giving while I still have something to give, no matter how little, is an inner beauty routine I won’t do without.
Besides, I know a hairdresser in Westchester who can give me a decent, simple bob. She’s been cutting her own hair for a long time, as did her mother before her. And after she cuts my hair, she’ll even make us some lunch and tell me another story about my family.
Oh, and the perfume? I’ve been rationing the last of the bottle I have, unable to bring myself to spend money that might be needed elsewhere. In its place I started using Nana’s suggested combination of baby oil and talcum powder and hoped that Nathan would still recognize me.
One night when we were about to fall asleep, he put his head on my chest and sighed. “You smell amazing,” he said.
12
FORECAST: BLEAK TODAY, CHANCE OF THE UNIVERSE PROVIDING TOMORROW
Beef Stew with Yeast Dumplings
½ cup flour
1½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. pepper
2 pounds beef, cubed
3 tsp. shortening
1 bay leaf
1 clove garlic (optional)
1 pound small white onions
6 carrots, cut into large pieces
3 medium potatoes, halved
1 package frozen peas or cut beans
Mix flour, salt, and pepper in a pie pan and coat each piece of beef with it. Heat shortening in a heavy pot or Dutch oven, add enough of the floured meat to cover the bottom and brown the meat well over moderate heat. Remove, if necessary, to brown remaining meat. Return all meat to the pot and add water to cover, bay leaf, and garlic. Bring to a boil, lower heat, cover and simmer slowly until the meat is almost tender, or about two hours.
Add onions, carrots, and potatoes and cook for ten minutes. Add peas or beans. If the stew is to be served without the dumplings, continue simmering until the meat and vegetables are tender, or about 20 minutes.
The yeast dumpling batter will take about 30 minutes to rise and should be prepared about half an hour before the vegetables are added. Add dumplings and finish stew as directed below. Serves six.
Yeast Dumplings
1 pkg. active dry yeast
½ cup warm water
2 tbsp. sugar
¼ tsp. salt
1 tbsp. salad oil
1 tbsp. minced onion
1 egg, beaten
1½ cups sifted flour
Soften yeast in water. Add remaining ingredients and stir until smooth, or about one minute. Let rise in a warm place, such as a pan of warm water, until double in bulk, or about 30 minutes.
Stir down and drop by tablespoons onto the simmering stew, letting the batter rest on the meat and vegetables. Cover tightly and steam dumplings for 20 minutes without raising cover.
• • •
DECEMBER 2008
HUDSON COUNTY, NEW JERSEY
In a heavy-handed twist to the plotline, the recession really kicks in just in time for winter, and both the stock market and the temperature begin to plunge simultaneously. Both of these chilling developments are an excellent reason to start cooking up a hearty (and inexpensive) beef stew.
My grandparents used their big black Dutch oven to make stew; my mother still has it, and I think it’s at least fifty years old, if not more. “It’s a well-seasoned pot,” she says with admiration. I’ll have to settle for our Crock-Pot, which may be only about five years old, but I’m looking forward to seasoning it with one of Nana’s old recipes.
• • •
Last summer Nathan installed Wi-Fi in our apartment. “Now you can go online anywhere in the house,” he said. I could if I had a new computer; mine was over seven years old, which, from a technological point of view, put it on the level of an arrowhead. It didn’t matter, though, because when I needed to go online, I had my computer at work. Until I didn’t.
Coincidentally, I’d bought that laptop when I’d been laid off during the last recession, in 2001. I still had a part-time job at another magazine then, so buying a new computer didn’t seem like such a big deal. Besides, to a wr
iter a working computer is as essential as a nice sharp arrowhead was to a hunter.
This time, though, the idea of spending a couple of grand on anything, even the lifeblood of a freelance writer, is scary. I no longer think about money in numerical amounts but in terms of what it means to us: That’s a month’s rent and four weeks’ worth of groceries! I decide to make do with the computer I have. Unfortunately, it’s heading into its final winter and starts dying on me.
Our apartment has an upstairs full of windows where the living room, dining area, and kitchen are. It gets sunny and warm, and it’s perfectly suited for writing—if your laptop can pick up Wi-Fi at more than three inches away from the modem. If not, you have to plug directly into the modem in the office, which is downstairs, doesn’t get direct sunlight, and is at least ten degrees colder than it is upstairs. You can actually feel the temperature zones dropping as you descend the spiral staircase.
Our electric bills were reasonable when we were using lights and heat only at night and on weekends. Now I’m home all day and afraid of the numbers we’ll rack up if I turn anything on for more than a few minutes. In a magazine I see a photo of a family sitting at the dinner table while wearing their down parkas. At one time that might have been shocking, but now it makes perfect sense to me.
On days when it’s bitter outside and oppressively nippy in my little home office, I take a cue from the parka family and bundle up—two pairs of thick woolen socks, a long-sleeved T-shirt with a turtleneck over it, and a cashmere sweater over that. (The irony of wearing an expensive sweater while being afraid of what the heat would cost wasn’t lost on me. I should have gone all the way and worn pearls.)
I roll up the shades and get enough sunlight to work by, but days that it rains and snows are the worst, cold and dark. I had always liked rainy and snowy days, but now they depress me.
