Getting to Know My Mother

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

by Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—2/14/11—My new mother was a storyteller. She made the most mundane things exotic and fascinating. To start with, she’d been born in Kingston, Jamaica, where her father, a US consul, was posted, and lived in a village called Halfway Tree. She’d had a pet monkey in Nicaragua, which died of a cold when she forgot it outside in the rain. And she’d run a barbershop on her front steps in Washington, DC, cropping the locks of kids in her neighborhood with her mother’s kitchen scissors.

In the 1930s, she lived in Italy, Turin and Florence, where she went to school with Emilio Pucci; and in Breslau, where Otto von Bismarck’s red-headed grandson dipped her pigtails in the inkwell. Her route to school in Florence took her past Michelangelo’s giant statue of David and, every day, she’d try to peek under his fig leaf.

She didn’t have much time for her mother, disliked her sister, Antoinette, who was very proper and ten years older, but adored her father. She used to sit on his lap while he listened to opera recordings or radio broadcasts. And once he came home from a reception with a rare treat: a banana, wrapped in a linen hanky with the initials AT embroidered on it. The maestro Arturo Toscanini had lifted it from the banquet table when he heard about the little girl who loved the fruit. Two other prized possessions from those years were autographed state photographs of the King and Queen of Italy, with little crowns on their gilt frames.

I lapped up every word. And yearned to move to her Europe, instead of Long Island where nothing ever happened.

My new mother, Elizabeth Ann Heard Register Farr or Betsy, never ran out of stories but she hated the kitchen. In the good old days that didn’t matter because we always had a cook, though my savior Marie lived up to that line of Saki’s: “She was good as good cooks go, and as good cooks go, she went.” (See “A Love Story” 1/31/11.)

Mom (I never thought of her as a stepmom) had only one recipe. For spaghetti and meat sauce and that was all we ever ate on the cook’s day off. Without variation—no pesto, carbonara, or funghi. No tagliatelle, lasagna, or fettuccine. No marvelous dishes from her years in Italy, because she would rather starve than stand over a hot stove and had never bothered to learn anything else.

So, one snowy day as I rushed through the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks upon seeing her there. Looking closer, I saw that she wasn’t stirring the pan; she was crying into it. I was aghast. Adults didn’t cry. I’d only seen my father break down once, shortly after my real mother’s death. And that was, he said, because my brother Shelty was on his way to war in Germany.

“What’s the matter?” I came closer and she looked at me, eyes streaming.

“I’m so disappointed in you,” she whispered. “You threw that snowball that nearly cracked the window. And when your father ran out in a rage, he saw Woody holding one his hand. But he hadn’t thrown it, yet. You let Woody take the blame. And never said a word. That was not fair.”

I was mortified. I knew she was right. I should protect my new little brother. Had I lost her love? That meant more to me than anything, even my father’s anger.

The next time I found her crying it was late summer. She was again in the kitchen, dripping tears onto a party dress she was ironing. “Your father won’t take me to the yacht club dance,” she sobbed. “Now that we’re married, he feels he can just stay home. No need to see anybody, do anything . . . .”

Lest you think she was spoiled, you should know that she had only just turned 28. My father was 57. She’d taken on four stepchildren, two who were almost as old as she was, along with her own little ones. Despite her youth, she had us all spellbound. Even without a college education, she knew more about psychology than most shrinks. She certainly had more charm. And she usually got her way.

Strangely, although Mom couldn’t abide cooking, she did appreciate good food. When I grew older, from about twelve on, she used to take me into New York to the ballet or the theater (but NOT the opera—I never knew whether she’d had a surfeit when she was little or too many memories). The outing would start with an early lunch at her favorite restaurant, the Rex, opposite Bloomingdale’s on 59^th street. The maitre, a Peter Lorre lookalike, was Italian, so a babble of animated chatter always preceded our order. And a dry martini always arrived along with the menu.

Sometimes, I was allowed a sip. But we always chose the same dish: frogs’ legs with a garlic-parsley sauce so delectable that after I had polished the bones, I almost licked the plate. She introduced me to soft-shell crabs—a rare treat at our beach club cafeteria—and had our new Swedish cook make a fresh pea veloute I have never been able to equal.

I wish I could say that she taught me how to eat. My new mother had a much greater influence on my drinking habits.

Gin was not exactly mother’s milk to me, but she did prescribe it for menstrual cramps. My father called his Scotch “medi,” but never offered it. Mom took her thermos of martinis to the beach and gave me a swig whenever pains made me miserable. I do recommend it. You don’t need more than a couple of swallows.

She also had her own defense against drunkenness. The usual teenage beverage at parties, besides beer, which I hated, was punch, sweetened with fruit juice and spiked with booze. To avoid getting pissed and, more important, to safeguard my virtue, Mom told me, “Sip bourbon. You won’t like it, so you won’t be tempted to overdo it and let boys take advantage of you.”

She never said what to do if one did develop a liking for it.

As for boys, she’d had so many beaux before she married that she’d had to call them all Darling so she wouldn’t get them mixed up. Chic, funny, overflowing with “personality,” Mom had what used to be called “it.” Even in her 70’s, in Athens for a visit, she collected a crowd of men—all new to her—on our balcony. Eighteen years later, some of them still remember that day.

I did not acquire that ability, alas. But what she did pass on to me was her love of Europe, and her attraction to older men.

She never could understand my passion for the kitchen. When, in 1971, I moved from New York to Rapallo, Italy, where she and my father had retired, I crossed the Atlantic in a freighter along with a container filled with belongings they hadn’t been able to carry.

Imagine her disgust when, instead of her beloved antiques, the first few boxes revealed my treasures: scores of Gourmet magazines, copper-bottomed Revere ware, my wok and fish poacher, and my records.

Her cooking did not improve over time, either. When her dear friend and physician Bubi Bacigalupo came for dinner, he used to bring his own pasta and watch the pot till he proclaimed it al dente. The only thing she had perfected was boiled chicken for the dog.

But what fun we had eating lasagna al pesto and gamberi in her favorite trattorias by the sea near Genoa, Santa Margherita, Zoagli, but not Portofino (too expensive). Sipping Verdicchio and laughing, often till we cried, about life and its remarkable quirks. She never did achieve her dream: to live above a restaurant with a dumbwaiter to raise up the meals and send the dirty dishes back. But she never lost her knack for storytelling and finding humor (and admirers) even on black days.

Recipe

My mother’s recipe for spaghetti and meat sauce held no secrets, so, instead I’ll give you something I used to make for her. It was one of the first Greek dishes I learned and she loved it.

Fasolakia Ladera me Arnaki—Green Beans in Olive Oil with Lamb

2 lb (1 kg) boneless lamb leg or shoulder, cut in chunks

2 medium onions, chopped

¼ cup (60 ml) olive oil

4 ripe tomatoes, chopped, or 1 16 oz/400 g can

pinch of sugar

2 lb (1 kg) green beans, washed, trimmed and halved if long

2-3 garlic cloves, pressed, to taste

handful of chopped parsley and/or mint

Sauté the meat and onions together in the oil until the meat is slightly browned and the onions are translucent. Add the tomatoes and sugar, stir, and simmer, covered, for about 30 minutes. Add the beans and continue to simmer, covered, until the meat and vegetables are tender (30-45 minutes more). Just before serving, press the garlic into the stew and add the herbs and any seasonings (salt and black pepper).

I always add the garlic at the end so the taste doesn’t get lost. And now I usually stir in a teaspoon of hot pepper flakes at the sauté stage, which my mother probably would not have appreciated.

You can also add some potatoes, cut in small chunks, to the pot along with the beans.

This should be enough for 4-6 people, especially if potatoes are included.