by Suzan Colon
But I feel no sense of loss. If anything I’ve gained something over these past few months as I learned to cook and found out where, and who, I came from. I think about Nana as a scared but determined kid working during the Depression, and Grandpa living through the war, and my family heading down to Florida with nothing but a hundred bucks and a hundred hopes, and Mom saving every available dime in that coffee can, and I feel better. I think to myself, If they got through that, we can get through this. And it wasn’t all bad—sometimes what looked at first like more rotten luck turned out to be fate’s little crooked smile.
In 1952, when my mother was ten years old, there was a major slowdown in construction, so Charlie was out of work more often than not. Nana saw an ad in the paper for a typist at the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority, and she decided to apply for the job.
She was a little rusty after years of being a stay-at-home mom. The reports she had to type were done with layered carbon paper to make copies, and at first Nana made mistakes. Not wanting anyone to see all the pages in the trash, she took them with her into the ladies’ room and stuffed them in her girdle. Mom said that when Nana came home from her first day at work, she looked like she’d gained fifteen pounds.
But she was soon hired full-time, and Nana loved that job. She worked with Robert Moses and others who were shaping New York, and she climbed the ladder higher than she’d ever thought she could go. She went from being a temp typist who had one dress (and a girdle with sturdy elastic) to an executive assistant whose wardrobe included a floor-length black fringed gown and other glamourous items, which she wore when her bosses took her along to fancy cocktail parties and white-tie dinners. She may not ever have become a published author, but she was able to use her intelligence and creativity, and she was held in high esteem by those she worked with. And she never got rich, but she was finally secure. She worked at the Coliseum very happily, right up until the day she died.
The funeral home had to open a second adjoining room to accommodate all the visitors. And then a third for the endless arrangements of flowers. People attending other funerals poked their heads in and asked, “Who’s in there? A dignitary?”
“Yes,” said Nana’s boss.
• • •
I don’t say formal prayers, but every night, I make a mental list of things I’m grateful for. Tonight, as always, I’m grateful for Nathan, who’s snoring away beside me, and for the knowledge that my parents are healthy and whole, worried about their business but generally in good spirits. I give thanks for the spring rains breaking and for the end of the leaks pouring into the living room. I say thank you to Nana and Grandpa and tell them I love them. I’m grateful that I got to go to college—I was the first woman in my family to do so—and that I became a writer—that I’ve been able to realize almost all of Nana’s dreams, the ones I never knew she had until I found the recipe file. Now she’s inspiring me to go further, to aim higher than I thought I could go. Who knows, maybe I’ll even become a teacher like her beloved Miss Bumstead …
There’s more, so much more that I’m grateful for, that I start falling asleep before I can finish.
I want for nothing. I feel rich.
17
LEAVE THE DISHES
A small piece of advice, and one of the best, that I’ve gotten from Nana, who died at the age of fifty-seven—too young, but having never wasted a moment of her life:
I was not, and am not, the best housekeeper in the neighborhood. The competition of getting the first line of wash out on Monday morning has never interested me. Putting the dishes in the sink “until later” was, and still is, my practice. There are so many more important things than dishes.
Sometimes the house is such a mess that I think, “On Saturday I must do this—or that—or whatever is most in need of doing.” But when Saturday comes along, and it is a delightful, delicious day, and my husband says, “Let’s the three of us go fishing,” we all look at each other—guiltily—and of course they stick me with the decision.
I look at the house, at their faces, at what is outside of our hazy windows, and, knowing we are all only here for an unknown time, and how precious every minute is, I say: “Let’s go.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I make a gratitude list every day. Here is the one from the last day of writing this book.
I’m grateful to, and for:
Amy Gross, Susan Reed, Deborah Way, Pat Towers, Cathleen Medwick, Sudie Redmond, and all my editor-teachers at “Harvard.” Mary Ann Naples, the right agent at the right time, and everyone at The Creative Culture. Kris Puopolo, Todd Doughty, Bill Thomas, and everyone on the Doubleday Dream Team.
Sherri Rifkin, for all the plans we made at The Happiest Place on Earth, and for giving me the occasional kick in the butt with a slingback Manolo. Francesco Clark, for breathing with me. Jon Barrett, my Guardian Angel in Chief. Aaron Krach, Muse at Large. Amanda Siegelson, Web Mistress. Steve Korté, Superhero. Carolina Miranda, for encouragement. Susannah Harte, for patience and spiritual generosity. Gerri Brownstein, for guidance. David Keeps, for taking on an extra intern in the summer of 1984 and teaching me how to write for magazines, and who turned out to be an even better friend (and matchmaker) than mentor.
The Ladies of The Grange, for sharing your recipes.
My family—relations by blood and marriage, steps and halves, and friendship beyond compare. I love you all.
And Mom, Dad, Nathan, Nana, and Grandpa: You are my heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUZAN COLÓN is a contributing writer and editor for O, The Oprah Magazine. Her essays and articles have appeared in Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar, Rolling Stone, Details, and other magazines. For more information, visit her Web site at www.cherriesinwinter.com.
In the great Irish tradition of storytelling, the dates aren’t exact, and the names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty, but the events are true.
Copyright © 2009 by Suzan Colón
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.doubleday.com
DOUBLEDAY and the DD colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
The Estate of Jan Struther: “Advice to My Future Grand-daughter” from Betsinda Dances and Other Poems by Jan Struther (London: Oxford University Press, 1931). Reprinted by permission of Ysenda Maxtone-Graham and Robert Maxtone-Graham, on behalf of the Estate of Jan Struther.
New York Daily News: “$5 Daily for Favorite Recipe—Chicken Roman” from New York Daily News, copyright © by New York Daily News, L.P. Reprinted by permission of New York Daily News.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Colón, Suzan.
Cherries in winter: my family’s recipe for hope in hard times/Suzan Colón.—1st ed.
p.cm.
1. Colón, Suzan. 2. Colón, Suzan—Family—Anecdotes. 3. Food habits—United States—Anecdotes. 4. Food habits—Economic aspects—United States—Anecdotes. 1. Title
CT275.C7323A3 2009
394. 1′20973–dc22
2009022378
eISBN: 978-0-385-53258-7
v3.0
