When it was just the two of us living in a shitty apartment in Berkeley, the bookshelves were made of boards and cinderblocks. Later, when we lived in the big house in Corte Madera, there were whole rooms filled with books, all from my mom. My step-father fancied himself a writer, but he believed reading anything other than what was important to his own alcohol-inspired manifesto was a waste of paper.
My mother, on the other hand, believed that all problems could be solved with discipline, a proper book on the subject, or a pot roast (or lasagne). Whenever she would return from a business trip or a day or errands, on my bed she would place a new book. When I was 9, she put 10 copies of Our Bodies Ourselves on my bed and told me to give to any friends who wanted them. This made me popular for about 48 hours, until my mother started receiving phone calls from irate parents who absolutely positively did not want their daughters saying or reading the word “vagina” out loud.
When I was bored, I would wonder into the library my mom built and grab a book. She had them organized according to author. After I had exhausted the elementary school’s library collection of Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, and The Phantom Tollbooth, I started in on my mom’s. The first stop was James Baldwin. The last, Richard Wright.
While our collections of fiction, science, mystery, politics, art, travel, and women’s health continued to grow, and despite Jean’s avid love of there were only two sets of cookbooks in the house: Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child, and The Encyclopedia of Cooking, a Time-Life collection of 15 or so volumes. When I was six, she gave me my first cookbook, The Betty Crocker Cookbook for Boys and Girls. I read it over and over again, memorizing every recipe.
My mother used cookbooks sparingly. She would grab one from the shelf to look up a new recipe, get the gist of the ingredients, and then create the dish without referring to the book again.
“Why don’t you follow the recipe, Mom?” I would ask, watching her in the kitchen, sometimes fetching things from the refrigerator for her to use.
“You don’t cook from recipes, silly,” she would say, “unless it’s baking, which is why I generally don’t bake, except for things you can hedge on, like banana bread.”
“Well, how do you know what to do?”
“Vibration. Just like everything else in life; you have to feel what’s right, and then follow your heart. You have to understand what a dish needs. Books can teach you basic techniques, like how to braise or pan-sear. They can give you an idea of what is in a recipe, like that you should add tomatoes and onions, but they cannot tell you how it should taste; you have to feel that for yourself.”
The vibration of things is always in you, that was my mother’s perspective. It can be lost if you depend too much on other things to tell you what to do. You know what’s right. Do that thing, not the other thing.
“It’s like the Bible,” my mom said. “Most of the people who rely on that stupid piece of fiction to find their moral compass are the most immoral assholes I know.” Early on, we learned not to trust people who went to church very often. My mom kept her atheism under wraps. It was very unpopular with black people.
The true essence of things, she said, would tell you how to treat them. Trust your instincts.
“See, this chicken?” she’d tell me, cleaning and cutting it for preparation. “The meat is sweet, so unless you only want to use it as a protein source or it’s of poor quality, steer clear of pungent sauces. If she made chicken with buerre blanc, we knew she had gotten an expensive piece of meat. If she made chicken cacciatore, with its peppers, and tomatoes, and garlic and onions, she wanted us to focus on the sauce.
Jean’s menus were ever practical, a nuance I didn’t come to appreciate until I started attending others’ dinner parties, where the host was so busy trying to cook, she never left the kitchen and we were beholden to the food, our movements largely scripted by when certain dishes were ready.
“Food can be memorable in hindsight, but should complement the party, not the other way around,” she’d say. “It should spark, not overshadow, the conversation.”
If the party was to have many guests, and she couldn’t afford help (which she could only afford if it was an office function), she would call it an open house, and create a buffet. Since people would come and go at different times, she could spend time with each guest. The food she served on these occasions was designed to hold up over a long period without a lot of fuss. Things that got soggy, like leafy salads, were off the list. Things that got ugly, like scoopable desserts, were off the list.
“Swedish meatballs are a good choice for big parties,” she’d say, “because they get better as the sit and don’t look bad if the pot is nearly empty. Soup, too.” Passed hors doeuvres were only appropriate with outside help or at small gatherings; otherwise you spent your time going from guest to guest and couldn’t enjoy a conversation. There were always rules. As kids, we used to say that there were two ways to do things: mom’s way and the wrong way.
Because buffets had had to look good over time, after people had taken food, she loathed the cheese spread. She preferred the brie-in-bread-boule to the soft cheese set up. My mother had little faith in the human race’s ability to keep things neat, even if they were her friends.
“People need a lot more home training around cheese,” she’d say, disgusted at how guests would dig out the soft center of cheese, leaving the milk rind for others to see. “If I ever see you do something that inconsiderate, I’ll knock you into next week.”
She showed me how to take a proper slice of soft cheese, cutting the rind and cheese together. If I didn’t want to eat the rind (although it was perfectly good), it could be discarded on my own plate. Leaving trash for others to work around was just rude.
Other good buffet foods, according to my mother, included chips and salsa, empanadas, which were good hot or cold, and anything that could be cut into squares or stacked into a pyramid shape, like bread pudding, which she would serve next to a fondue pot full of lemon whiskey sauce. Or meatloaf cupcakes (she would bake meatloaf in cupcake tins, and put a circle of mushrooms on the bottom so when they were inverted, they would look nice.
The sixties were dead, and the seventies gave way to more informal parties. I watched rumaki and cucumber sandwiches disappear from the rotation. In their place, miniature quiches, tomatoes stuffed with homemade boursin, jello blocks made with rum, cheese fondue with kirsch, and chocolate fondue surrounded by chunks of apple, banana, strawberry, and Sara Lee pound cake. Sweet or savory, she always made enough fondue for there to be leftovers we could use to make hot chocolate the next morning.
Fondue – chocolate or cheese – can be done two ways. You can make it in advance if you are having a buffet, and people will marvel at your culinary skills. Or, if you want to put on a show at a dinner party and display your confidence under pressure, you can make it tableside. It’s not as dramatic as a tableside bananas foster with its blue flame, but you’ll still get a lot of respect.
Here is Jean’s recipe for chocolate fondue. The measurements are not exact, meaning it will work if you do it exactly as I’ve written it, but it will work if you use your own vibration. Have fun:
1 package of any chocolate chips that do not kill African babies or put money in the hands of people who kill African babies. Guittard or Ghirardelli are good choices (this is about 12 oz, but use your gut). If you prefer, chop up some good quality candy bars.
1 stick of unsalted butter
2 cups heavy cream
A pinch of sea salt (if you are wondering why the butter is unsalted but she adds back the salt, my mom was always of the opinion that salted butter was of a lower quality, and it was also better to control the amount of salt in your food. She will also be quick to tell you that salt is a necessity.
1 tbl. vanilla extract
1/3 cup Grand Marnier
Put the butter and cream into a saucepan with a thick bottom. Aluminum is not a good choice here (is it ever, really?), but if it’s all you have, just be careful to use a low heat. You can also use a fondue pot with a heat source underneath if you’re tableside.
Heat the liquid until it is very hot, but not boiling. Dump in the chocolate and stir the mixture constantly until the chocolate is fully melted. Add the rest of the ingredients and serve with various dipping fruits, cake and bread.
You can use any liquor you like. We’ve made this fondue with Cointreau, whiskey, kahlua, really anything. Here are my favorite combinations:
Southwest: ½ cup Kahlua and 1 tbl chile powder
Lavender: While the cream is heating, add 2 tbls food-grade lavender. Prior to adding the chocolate, strain out the lavender and return it to the pot.
Earl Grey: use the lavender method, but use 2 Earl Grey tea bags and omit the vanilla.
Peanut Butter: using a whisk, whisk in 3 heaping tablspoons of peanut butter into the milk, whisking until smooth. Then add your remaining ingredients.
This recipe is extremely easy. It is also a show-stopper. You absolutely positively cannot go wrong with this dessert (unless you have purchased chocolate that kills babies). You can get crazy and dip all sorts of other things: pretzel sticks, prunes, dried mango, or my personal favorite, Fritos.
In winter months, Jean’s parties often included soup. When she served soup, Jean would leave it in the kitchen on low heat, which allowed her freedom from replenishing it. She merely set out the whole pot, piled up some bowls and spoons next to the pot, and laid some crusty French bread and a ceramic pot full of butter next to it.
“Always cut a few slices of the bread so people can see how to cut it,” she’d say.
“It’s common sense how to cut bread, mom.”
“No such thing as common sense. People are idiots.”
Jean still believed a party should have its own drink. During the holidays she would make giant batches of hot buttered rum batter and I would create a calligraphy sign of the poem she’d written for guests to follow. The ditty went like this:
Follow these instructions ‘til you’re done.
Put a heaping spoonful of this stuff in a cup,
Add a jigger of rum, and with hot water fill-up.
Stir briskly, and then put cream atop your brew.
Enjoy the good cheer, happy holidays to you!
“Oh, let’s see. I think just smash up a couple of sticks of butter with a couple of cups of brown sugar. Then add nutmeg, vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves.” The batter will keep for a week without refrigeration. It will keep pretty much forever in the fridge, but if you still have some leftover after 30 days, make a coffee cake with it.
Sit-down dinners – the ones that usually ended with me decorating an apology card – were another story. Care and attention had to be paid to each part of the dinner party. First, sit-down dinners were never to be more than 10 people. Bigger than that, and my mother felt it was more suitable for a buffet/party.
I knew she was planning a sit-down party when she got out the index cards. Each card would have the name of a guest and she would shuffle them around until she got the right seating combination. This, she said, was the secret to a good dinner party.
“Never sit couples next to one another, unless they have only been dating for a very short time.”
“What different does it make?” I’d say. “It’s not like you’re all that far away from each other.”
“Three reasons: first, couples can talk to one another any time. A dinner party should be a new experience, not just dinner at someone else’s house. That’s not a party.
“Second, people tend to become insular and judgmental if they are not required to open their mind. The surest way to a disaster party is to have couples whispering to one another in the middle of someone talking.
“Third, people are more likely to speak the truth if there isn’t someone next to them squeezing their hand under the table. That makes the conversation interesting.”
I considered this last point and asked, “Like how Jerry calls people assholes?”
“No. Not like that.”
There were other considerations I thought of as tedious then, but now understand why she took so much time on the details. The more amusing and gregarious people had to be split up because if you didn’t, one side of the table would be roaring with laughter while the other side of the table was relegated to wondering what was so funny. Too many pretty women around one man wasn’t good, either; it could fuel a bit fight in the car later. Nevertheless, it was important to space out the genders equally around the table.
Flower arrangements had to be low, candles tall, and only blocking the hosts’ view. Flowers should not have a strong scent; it would interfere with the food. Name cards were not necessary, except where guests had no home training and would not wait to be told where to sit. We had name cards a lot.
Music should be recognizable, but not sing-a-long or dance-a-long style until after dinner, when brandy was served. Charles Aznavour was her preferred dinner music. Dinah Washington afterward. My step-dad preferred Bob Dylan, which my mother thought was too polarizing for a friendly party. She allowed it only during their revolutionary planning meetings. She had one cardinal rule I always thought was silly until I violated it in my adulthood:
“Never think you can mend fences or bring people together over food. People are only able to come together over ideas. Do not invite enemies and think you can get them to see eye-to-eye because you made a great pot roast. And I make a damn good pot roast!” I broke this rule only once in my adulthood, and I paid the price. Don’t do it.
Jean’s attention to the tiniest consideration and her understanding of what worked – her vibration -- was what defined her as my mother. Her own vibration, told her when to add a pinch of dill or omit the sugar. She knew without looking that I had not set the cup handles at exactly 4 o’clock simply because the table seemed off to her. She could sense when a guest wasn’t comfortable and could quickly change the subject. She lost her vibration with her children, but when it came to setting a perfect table, no one could compete. When these characteristics attention began to fade, I didn’t recognize her.
The changes were small at first, but significant to me. Her closer friends later in life – many of them slobs themselves – didn’t see the signs, but I and a few old friends did see them. Magazines and newspapers were piling up. When we tried to take them away to recycle, she’d freak out.
“Put those down! I’m planning to read them.”
Jean never reads day-old papers. Just after the Thanksgiving where my father-in-law had revealed she was not in fact mastering the Sudoko, I come over to her house to test her feelings about buying duplex together. I suspect this will infuriate John’s children; they seem to be laying in wait for their inheritance and are unlikely to relish the idea of a new property, but I cannot be bothered about that now. My husband and I agree she really needs to have someone nearby, and with a job and a child, the only way is to have her live with us (or right next door). We know how she treats caregivers and don’t want to subject them, or her, to that. For now, that option is off the table.
We offer to buy the house next door to ours, but quickly abandon that plan when we realize she will be too far away from downtown once her driver’s license is taken away, which may happen at some point in the next couple of years. We find two duplexes, one in Berkeley, the other in Oakland.
I stop by after work to see her. Crap is everywhere. It looks like a bad curio shop. Every flat surface is covered with stuff.
Photographs without frames, once relegated properly to photo albums and shoeboxes, were leaning against every wall. Any and every reminder of John she can display is out on a table or credenza. His ashes, a basket to hold his ashes. newspaper articles about his death, now yellowed and curling, they are all in the dining room.
Art books John loved are set out on tables instead of sitting in their bookshelves. Shoeboxes of memorabilia from various vacations they’ve taken are out on display, even plane ticket stubs from 1998 have found their place on the liquor cabinet-turned-shrine.
When she runs out of tabletop surfaces, she buys narrow decorative tables and puts up more things. There are now three of these tables to clutter the living room, and she has set up a second dining room table to display each and ever serving platter she can find, just as she did years ago when prepping for a large party. When questioned about it, she says she wants to be prepared for a book club luncheon. The number of serving platters on the table could host food for 80.
The fireplace mantle, once empty, save a single blue wine bottle, is now littered with ceramic pieces, photographs, decorate pots, two hot pots, more server platters, and glassware. The clutter is making me crazy, and I think suddenly of the saint my husband is for even suggesting we all live together. I steel myself and ask.
“Mom, Dan and I were thinking we could buy a duplex together – you on one side and us on the other. Then you would be near your grandchild, which would be great for him, and when you are no longer able to drive, we can drive you or you can walk to different places without a car.”
“I love this house,” she says. “I see no reason to leave.” I will soon learn the reason why.
It is not merely the memory of John she hopes to preserve, she is much worse off than we see. In fact, when she tries to go shopping, take a drive, do anything outside the walls of her house alone, she becomes completely confused. She does not know where she is. She has been using the house to trigger behavior.
If she is in the kitchen and forgets why she came in, she will assume she is there to eat something. If she is sitting at the dining room table, she will offer guests a libation. In her office, she is reminded to pay bills. My husband sees this clearly, but the rest of us do not. I continue to try to convince her she should leave.
“Mom, this house is 3000 square feet. You hardly need that much room for one person. Besides, it’s way up in the hills. You cannot get anywhere without driving. Don’t you want to be more central? Someplace where you can walk?” I try to play on her fantasies next. “You and John were going to get a place in Opera Plaza so you could walk to everything.”
“I don’t need to be anywhere where I can walk,” she says resolutely. “I have a car.”
Oh God. I was hoping not to bring up the A-word, but she is not budging. I give it a shot (ready to duck another flying object if I have to).
“Mom, eventually they are going to take away your driver’s license.”
“Why? I’ve never had an accident.” She has actually had several small ones, but does not remember. I worry she has simply driven away on some of them.
“Because,” I pause. I have to say it. “Because you have Alzheimer’s.”
The fuse is short, the retort is rapid.
“I don’t have Alzheimer’s! Those fucking doctors don’t know what they’re talking about. I got a second opinion and I don’t have Goddamn Alzheimer’s.”
“What? What second opinion?”
“Dr. Huang says I do not have Alzheimer’s.”
Dr. Huang is John’s former Parkinson’s doctor, whom Jean adores. She has seen him, she says. (Later, I will fax his office a HIPAA release and my mom’s durable power of attorney allowing me to know her medical condition, but he will refuse my calls. I will have no idea what he says until he sends the records to her current doctor. His diagnosis is Jean’s condition is inconclusive as to Alzheimer’s. All Jean remembers is that he did not confirm Dr. Richardson’s diagnosis.) She has thrown away her meds.
People do really really stupid things and call them trying to be helpful. I will learn this as I continue to struggle with what to do. Doctors who have no backbone suddenly become friends. Friends who have no medical training suddenly become doctors. One of my mom’s more control-freaky friends (one who will later pepper me with abusive phone calls and threats) has fueled my mother’s paranoia that her current neurologist is a quack and her daughter is not to be trusted.
Up to this point, I have largely ignored this friend. She was not around when I was a kid. She does not know my relationship with Jean. She doesn’t really know Jean. Virtually every assumption she has made is wrong. In the grand scheme of things, Ariana (that’s what we will call her) has known Jean for only about 10 years, is out of central casting for Jewish busy-body know-it-all, and does not affect my life. What I could not know was how this third party could so affect the decisions I made about my mom.
“OK,” I say, claws drawn “You got a second opinion and you’re just fine, huh?. Really? You’re going with that, mom? How, exactly do you explain this house? It’s a fucking shit storm.”
I am still in my own denial about how to deal with my mother. I have not completely bought into the nurse’s admonishment that I shouldn’t make things worse by calling Jean on her logic flaws, her memory loss, her confusion. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter and I and self-righteously helping her (did I mention, daughters become assholes). I believe, completely and totally incorrectly, that I can talk sense into her. If she just looks around her, if I just remind her of how many times she’s lost her keys, forgotten her ATM code, triple-written a check, she will come to her senses.
I am ready for the fight. I will verbally knock sense into her. Bring it, mom. I can take you. Hit me with what you’ve got.
Instead of getting angry, she starts to cry.
“I’m so lost without John,” she says. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s at the foot of the bed. I miss him so much. I just can’t get anything done without him here.”
I hug her, tell her it will be OK. The next day, she receives a notice from the DMV that her driver’s license has been revoked.
I receive a phone call the next day. Without her medication, Jean is a wreck, but now convinced she doesn’t need it, refuses to take it. She is as angry as I have never seen her when she calls me. Her voice is shaking and she is speaking in that psychopathic tone she would use when we were kids, just before she went berserk on us. I can see her crazy-eyes through the phone.
“I need a lawyer,” she says slowly. “I’m going to sue that bitch.”
“What bitch? I ask.
“The BITCH who revoked my license.”
She is referring to her doctor. Some months ago, when Jean was out of earshot, her doctor had told me.
“You have no idea what you’re up against. This disease is going to make her life and yours a living hell. There is one thing I can do to ease your burden, however: let me be the heavy when it’s time to revoke her license. Your mom will go crazy. She’ll probably try to sue me.” She was right.
Jean is consumed with anger: the anger over losing her best friend John, the anger over losing her memory, the anger over losing her license. Now she has someone on which to unleash it, and she’s going full tilt, channeling every last bit of it against the doctor who has now become the real source of her problems. Fueled by Ariana’s comments that Jean is still competent to drive (“I'm sure you’re behind this,” Ariana tells me in a phone call), Mom is on the warpath.
“Mom, I don’t think that’s such a great idea. I mean, I know lawyers in the elder law area, but don’t you think you should transition from driving at this point? I think you should consider this a newfound freedom.”
“I don’t give a FUCK what you think!” scrams Jean. She is screaming so loud that later, her neighbor will call me to find out what was going on (and Jean never opens her windows). “If you don’t find me a lawyer, I’ll find one.” She slams down the phone.
As an officer of the court, I believe in the justice system and I firmly support my mother’s right to have an elder law attorney represent her. I am confident no scrupulous, ethical, or competent elder law attorney will fight for her to get back her license. I also know that not everyone who has a license to practice law is scrupulous, ethical, or competent.
Jean has lost her vibration. The Alzheimer’s has inverted her world, made her trust those who are suspect, and suspect those who are trustworthy. It will be up to me to do the right thing. I think about her friend Ariana, who has inserted herself in Jean’s business and will no doubt assist her in the process of securing her license if I don’t do it. I think about how it must feel to be Jean, trying to access files in her mind that are now empty, frightened that her world is closing in on her. I think hard about what is right.
I get Jean a lawyer.
For the record, Ariana is right: I am behind the revocation of my mother’s license. 100%. Boom.
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