Pearl was an amazing person and mother when she was in a good headspace. I get my love of words, reading, and cooking from her. She is the single biggest influence on my life, good and bad.
She was a wizard in the kitchen and loved mealtime. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner mattered not. Her supplies were meticulously kept; pots and pans in order, measuring cups sized and stored from large to small, cupboards always well organized. Knives sharpened. Cans of food were faced, and she used vinegar to clean the countertops. I learned that dishrags are wrung out and hung over the faucet at night and used for only two days before washing. These are rules I do not follow today. Not sure if it’s a willful act of disobedience or because I’m subconsciously fighting the demons of my past. Sometimes I can feel my knees buckle when memories of Pearl bubble up. They usually rear their ugly head in the kitchen.
I love words and so did Pearl. She had a lightning fast wit, a razor-sharp tongue, and an ability to fool the smartest in the room. Who am I kidding…Pearl was the smartest in the room, by a mile.
My earliest memories of childhood are like faded and hazy advertisements from a late 1970’s Good Housekeeping magazine. Our kitchen was a collision of avocado green and harvest gold. Deliberately together, in one place. It was horrific. My mind’s eye burns when I envision the color palate that ensconced my youth.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I remember reading the dictionary out loud to my mother while she cooked. The pronunciations of consonant-laden words often snagged my tongue, but I eventually mastered all of them. Until mastery, I’d rip through each word and Pearl would laugh until she’d pee. I loved it. I can see the tears running down her face, hear her high pitched laugh, and then the inevitable snort. At every meal prep, Pearl headed for the cutlery and food for preparation and I for the dictionary. Pearl was an intellect and it was not obvious to most, but to me, it was the first thing I saw. Her mind was a machine and I loved watching it work. Most didn’t know it because she wasn’t overt or arrogant.
We had two editions of the dictionary, an Oxford English (OED) and an Oxford Classic (OCD). Each was, to Pearl, one of her few prized possessions. The OED was her preferred copy. It went into etymology, how words, their use and meaning changed over time. The OCD was like table wine, or, “for the commoner” as Pearl would say. Deep thinkers leaned toward the OED and run of the mill lookups called for the OCD. Meal prep called for the OED because we were learning.
I was not allowed to snack while I read the dictionary, but I was strongly encouraged to doodle in the pages and take notes. And doodle I did. With pens, pencils, Crayons, and markers. Pearl didn’t care. Just interact with the book. I eventually learned that an old fashioned Bic blue pen was best for the task at hand; these remain my favorite pens today. Or a sharp pencil. Underline cool words, draw stars next to others. Come up with a cool system for interacting with the text and it makes looking back on it easier. I can now realize that Pearl taught me how to annotate before most other kids knew how to identify the subject and predicate. In all honesty, I had no idea that the fun thing I was doing was annotating at all. Suffice it to say, by the time I made it to college, I annotated like a boss. Pearl saved my ass more than I can count. I just liked the time with my mom when we would have food and linguistic adventures together. When Pearl was sick and would retreat into the recesses of her mind, I would grab the OED and try to mimic the fun on my own. It never worked.
Nevertheless, Pearl was a meal planner. Sort of. Well, maybe not. Pearl punted, a lot. I do it, too. Drives my husband nuts. I cannot and will not follow a recipe. Read it once or twice and then ad lib my way through. Looking back, Pearl never had to follow a recipe. She had them memorized, eidetic memory and all. While she made dinner, she sipped wine from a burgundy, Avon Cape Cod goblet. She was nothing if not meticulous; always a perfect 4 oz. pour. No more and no less. Green bubbled glass ashtray, cigarette in mouth, apron, and Ding Dong my dog. Dinnertime was splendid.
I remember when she went on her “ethnic kick” and tried everything from pepper steak to homemade egg rolls. They sucked but I’d never tell her that. Maybe Pearl should have used a recipe for dishes that didn’t originate in her lineage (Italy or Native American). Other than these few culinary disasters, I’d eat anything she prepared enthusiastically and always asking for seconds. Hungarian goulash, SOS, homemade cinnamon bread, and lasagna were her specialties.
But, Pearl’s pièce de résistance was her Mexican food. Holy Moses. Her green chile was to die for. It was a staple in our home. She would roast her own chiles almost weekly. Same with tomatillos and regular big red tomatoes, until black crusty perfection. Slow cooked pork and my life was bliss. Homemade salsa was always in the fridge. The hotter the better. And her huevos or potato rancheros were showstoppers. She would meticulously layer potatoes, eggs, homemade flour or corn tortillas, cheese, and tons of green chile. In an individual-sized cast iron pan. Typing this and thinking of the pure deliciousness of it all, nearly 37 years since I last ate it, still makes my mouth water.
To this day, I cannot eat anyone else’s pumpkin pie and I won’t even try, so don’t ask me. Though, I did a few times, long ago, and they all caused the gag reflex. Her pie crust had concentrated orange juice in it from the freezer section and the pumpkin filling was made with a real, gigantic squash. Seeds would be roasted, the orange meat prepared to utter perfection. Once completed, it was the texture of thick and chilled Oil of Ole face cream, her words not mine. The top of the pie filling had a skin on the top, sort of like pudding but less gross. It was really good when hot, but fucking spectacular the next day. For breakfast. In Pearl’s world, you never miss an opportunity to have pizza, birthday cake, or leftover pie for breakfast. I still follow this life mantra today. It’s the simple things.
My God what I wouldn’t give to eat one more of her meals. I’d take more time, enjoy the textures and smells, and remember the hands that made it. I’d hold on to every sensory stimuli for as long as humanly possible.
More Pearl to come…
