Kitchen Skills

A Journey to Fresh Fruit Salad

My mother had a narrow sliver of a kitchen inside her tenth floor Brooklyn apartment where she slammed around, barked orders and shoved food onto plates. When it was her turn anyway.

Binging after school episodes of Little House on The Prairie gave me a deceptive picture of what a hearth should look like. Mothers should be perfect, wise and thoughtful sages, which my mother tried to act like when she wasn’t working. She had an mysterious and important job on mainframe computers she rarely gave herself credit for. My dad wrote plays in his tattered, blue terry cloth bathrobe from his office, a cloud of smoke following him wherever he went.

He was in charge on the days my mother wasn’t home. One chicken stew a week, which was reheated and served nightly. Sometimes we got leftovers from a meal they had out. If we were lucky or he ran short, he made pasta with cottage cheese, or cornflake covered cutlets, and declared himself a chef de cuisine.

“I’m lousy cook,” my mother offered as a disclaimer when she was up at bat and my asshole father didn’t do anything disabuse her of it. Nor did my sister and I though I don’t remember it being awful. She was adventurous, always ready to try something new. Orange juiced chicken and stewed fish, murdered spinach in browned rice. 

Whatever it was, was never fresh. This was a woman who made one pot of drip coffee a week. She and my father choked it down until it was gone and she could justify brewing a fresh pot.

Shopping day was an opportunity to finish up the rotting stuff piling up from the week/s before.

Everyday, she prepared a fruit salad, which she thoroughly enjoyed. She offered it to everyone, with very few takers. I’d never really liked fruit salad. I could eat a pear and plenty of cantaloupe, but cut up and put together it always seemed off—a weird and slimy liquid swirling beneath melon baller scoops and topped with mushy strawberries.

As my mother aged and got sick, a woman came in the morning to prepare her food and give her medication. One day I was there and she handed me a dish.

“Fruit salad?” she asked. “Your mom loves it!”

I’d eaten far worse trying not to be rude, so I took it. The citrus tang wafted to my nose. I took a hesitant bite. Wow, I thought, as a slice of orange and a nice chunk of grape hit my tongue. My eyes opened wide. This was fabulous!

“What do you do?” I asked her. “I’ve never tasted fruit salad like this.”

“Oh,” she said, like it was nothing, “I throw out the bad fruit.”

Like a revelation, it was my first inkling that much of my mother’s suffering was self inflicted. I’m sure her depression-era raised soul couldn’t taste the difference. And it is true that my sister and I will survive any nuclear winter after the fermented stink of a childhood that nourished us.

As a young married woman, finally serving myself, I was happy eating out—diner food, pizza, bagels. In West Hollywood, if you were looking for us, we were usually at Norm’s or Denny’s where you could get a chicken sandwich, fries and a diet coke for less than $10. The pounds were cheap back then; the scale more forgiving. 

I took a cooking class with a friend, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I had difficulty following recipes and conventions of any kind, but the company was great, I got some useful tips, and the plate I brought home for my husband was always appreciated. After the final, I made a steak, but confused the vinegar for wine, and people (my husband) encouraged me to keep taking the class but to use my talents where they might better serve.

I didn’t take a turn back into the kitchen until the screaming kids suddenly made me prefer a poorly cooked meal over an inevitable food fight. With their tantrums, and grabby, meaty fingers, I was taking mercy on other people. You’re welcome.

My husband suffered the opposite of my mother’s disease. The moment the date approached, I was already crying over the milk he spilled down the drain. He lived in abject horror that I, like my mother, would want to serve him a chicken that was in the freezer for seven years. Which I admit was tasteless but didn’t prove poisonous. No harm, no fowl?

My husband does his fair share of the food prep now, but when we were all younger, and I was the reluctant but dedicated chef, he had a list of limits for me to operate within. 

1. No leafy green anything. 

2. No spices beyond salt and pepper. 

3. NOTHING low fat. 

4. NOTHING spicy.

I’m NOTHING if not resourceful, so you shouldn’t be surprised that I gained many tasteless pounds this way.

I held to his parameters and came up with a bunch of things he would eat that would honor the adult I’d become, while still feeding his and my children’s juvenile pallet. Which is all to say that it was an accomplishment when I got him to taste baked chicken cutlets instead of fried.

I have a roster of dishes that people like. A few even make requests when they come over. This past week when my kids were home was like a wonderful trip for me through my greatest hits. There was couscous and my husband’s schnitzel—macaroons and grilled everything. I even threw in a chicken soup at the end—delicious, even when no one’s sick.

I was excited to make the things the kids wanted and they cleaned me out! In the ongoing battle between Dad’s good time, all-you-can-eat fast food, and my deceptively healthy morning frittata, I finally seem to be coming out ahead. 

Sure, my husband’s taste buds have faded. My sensitivity to them as well. We find ourselves in the kitchen together these days. The old favorites still apply but we are becoming more ambitious. It occurred to me recently that despite what I’d always assumed, I’m not a bad cook at all! I even bought a farm share—a-direct-from-farm purchasing scheme—where you’re not sure what you’ll get but it will all be pulled up from the ground a few mountain-road miles away. 

It breaks my heart that my mother didn’t get to see all the things I’ve learned. I want her to know that I’ve made her rock Cornish game hen in a ceramic casserole, with fresh birds and potatoes hard enough to cut through, and that it was worth the price. 

More than anything, I wish she could have enjoyed a fresh cup of coffee with her fruit salad.