Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “What’s that strange sound?”

  I lay still for a minute, listening to an eerily rhythmic whooshing float through the house. It was very familiar. I strained, trying to remember where I had heard it before. And then I remembered that Mom was with us. “She’s taking a bath,” I said.

  “At this hour?”

  “She doesn’t sleep like normal people. When I was a kid she was always getting up to take baths in the middle of the night. She likes to leave the plug out and let the water run so it stays really hot. That’s the sound you hear.”

  Michael groaned.

  “Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t talk. If she hears us she’ll demand breakfast or conversation or something. Just go back to sleep.”

  Michael groaned again. I went back to sleep. And then he was shaking me. “Get up, get up, something terrible has happened.”

  I surfaced slowly, swimming up through the layers of a dream. I blinked at the light. “What time is it?” I asked, sitting straight up.

  “Five-thirty. I woke up feeling that something wasn’t right and I went to look around. The front door is wide open, banging in the wind, and your mother is gone.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She probably just went for a walk and forgot to close the door.”

  “At this hour? In the dark? She’s an old lady. It’s dangerous.”

  “Pity the person who tries to stop her,” I said, rolling over and diving back into sleep. But then—when?—Michael was shaking me again. “What now?” I asked.

  “Your mother’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.” He handed me the receiver.

  “Good morning, PussyCat,” my mother trilled in her most obnoxiously cheerful voice. “It’s time you got up. I’ve had the nicest walk, but now I’d like to please be picked up.”

  “Where are you?” I asked. Mom turned, and I heard the buzz of another voice. Somebody was standing next to her at the phone booth. “She says it’s Jones and Turk.”

  “It can’t be,” I said. “That’s the middle of the Tenderloin. And you would have had to walk uphill most of the way.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “The sidewalk seemed to go straight up. I’ve never seen such hills. There was one point, when I was getting right to the top of that street you live on . . . what’s it called?”

  “Leavenworth.”

  “Leavenworth, when I just couldn’t go any farther. But the nicest man came along and got behind me and literally pushed me up to the top.”

  I laughed; I could just picture her, huffing to the top, propelled by a stranger in the dark.

  “It’s not funny!” she said. “But after that, of course, it was all downhill. It was a little hard on my knees, but I kept going.”

  “And now you’re there having a pleasant conversation with a prostitute?”

  “Is that what she is?” said Mom. “I wondered. Come get me, please. I’m very tired.”

  * * *

  Michael was gone when we got back. Mom went to take a nap, and I sat down to work on my Thanksgiving story. I did not emerge from my studio until I heard a deep groan coming from the living room. I went rushing in to find my mother energetically pushing the sofa across the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I was thinking that the sofa would look much better if you put it on the other side of the room,” she replied.

  “I don’t know much about decorating,” I demurred. “And neither do you.”

  This had never, in the past, been known to deter my mother. It did not do so now. Before I knew it, we were on an excursion to Macy’s. We bought new curtains, new towels, a new rug. By mid-afternoon the house had an entirely new look. Mom was extremely pleased with herself. “Won’t Michael be happy!” she said.

  But when Michael came home happiness did not seem to be his dominant emotion. “Say you like it,” I whispered.

  “But I don’t!” he shot back.

  I pulled him into the bedroom. “We can put it all back after she goes,” I pleaded. “She had such a good time doing it. Don’t make a fuss.”

  “But it’s our house. I liked it exactly the way it was. She had no right to do this.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But she’s my mother.”

  “She’s impossible.”

  “You knew that before she came. What does it matter? It’s just a few days. Can’t you just let it go?”

  He couldn’t. I stayed in the bedroom, listening to him pushing the furniture back where it had been. “Don’t, don’t,” I heard her say as the sofa slid across the room. “It looks so much better where I put it.”

  “Not to me it doesn’t,” he said grimly. An armchair scraped the floor. A table thudded.

  “I was planning on having a little tea party for the people I met on the plane,” she said. “I just couldn’t invite them with the house looking the way it did.”

  “I suppose you’d also like to paint the bathtub gold,” he was saying as I went out to try to make peace.

  “It would be an improvement,” she said.

  Michael stalked into our bedroom, and I was left in the living room. My mother stood in the middle of the floor, wringing her hands. “It looked so nice,” she kept saying.

  “Well, it is his house,” I soothed.

  “No,” she said, “it’s your house too. And if you ask me, you let him push you around. He seems upset by my staying so long.”

  The thing to do now was reassure her, tell her it wasn’t true, that he’d had a bad day at the office. Instead I heard myself say, “It’s a small house. It is difficult for him.”

  My mother looked as if she had been slapped. She was silent for a second. “Well, isn’t that too damn bad!” she finally managed to come up with. “I feel sorry for him.” Gathering herself for an announcement, she said, “Don’t bother making dinner for me. I’ve lost my appetite.” Her bedroom door slammed, hard, behind her. She stayed behind it all evening.

  “Why on earth did you choose this moment to have a bout of honesty?” cried Michael angrily. “Why couldn’t you have said something conciliatory? You spend most of your time making nice and then you suddenly decide to tell the truth? Why? Now she’s going to campaign against me.”

  * * *

  She would have anyway, I thought, lying in bed, hating them both. I wished Doug were there. With him I always had an ally. Now I felt like a bewildered shuttlecock batted between two energetic forces I could not control. How had I made such a mess of my life?

  I listened to the hours pass. The clock ticked. The refrigerator clinked. The windows rattled. My mother got up, went to the bathroom, went back to bed. The pump went on. A horn sounded. Michael snored lightly. It was unbearable.

  I got up and tiptoed into the living room to try to sort out my feelings. “Oh, PussyCat,” I heard my mother whisper. I turned; she wasn’t there.

  “That’s some name,” said a voice, and I jumped. Where did it come from? I looked around, but I was alone.

  “Some name,” the voice said, growling now inside my head.

  “Who is this cute little PussyCat?” I folded my arms against my chest, hugging myself. “Me?” I asked.

  “Oh,” said the voice inside my head, “grow up.”

  It was not a pleasant voice, but for some reason it calmed me down. I went back to bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  When I woke up, Mom was sitting at the table wearing her poppy hat and surrounded by her suitcases. “I can’t stay here anymore,” she said regally. “I can’t sleep feeling so unwelcome.”

  “Please don’t leave,” PussyCat tried to say. But I pushed her out of the way, crossed my arms, and said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

  Mom looked so taken aback that I realized she had been expecting PussyCat. She was always expecting PussyCat.

  “You’ll be sorry,” she sniffed as we drove. “I’m glad your father’s not here to see what you’ve done with your life. You were much bett
er off with Doug. You should beg him to take you back. You should have children with him. You’ve made a terrible choice.”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But it’s my choice. What are you going to do for Thanksgiving?”

  “I guess I’ll just have to eat a little bowl of cereal,” she said in a pathetic voice. “Think of me when you and that Michael are dining on turkey in your cozy cottage. I’ll be all by myself, eating a cold meal in my lonely apartment.”

  “Mom,” I said, putting my hand over hers, “don’t leave. We’ve invited you for Thanksgiving. We’d like you to stay.”

  “I couldn’t stay now,” she sniffed. “I’d rather be alone.”

  “You won’t be,” I said, suddenly seeing the truth. “You’ll have a thousand invitations.” As I said it I realized that I was the one who was going to be alone. Alone with Michael. And suddenly I knew what I had to do.

  * * *

  “You’re not cooking Thanksgiving dinner?” Michael asked. “My favorite meal? My favorite holiday? We can’t have it at home?”

  “Not this year,” I said. “We’ll eat at home next year, I promise. I’ll invite a hundred people if you want. But this year we’re going out.”

  Michael did not look happy. But since he had driven my mother out of the house, he was not standing on high moral ground.

  “You’ll love Boonville,” I said. “It’s a wonderful place for Thanksgiving. Wait until you see the garden. There’s a huge fireplace in the dining room. We can spend the night in Mendocino. It’ll be perfect.”

  * * *

  San Francisco was foggy when we left, shrouded in a soft mist that muffled sound and obliterated sight. We were wrapped in a cocoon, heading north, feeling like the only people on the road in the early morning. All over America, I thought, women were getting sleepily out of bed, turning on the oven for the pies, melting the butter for the stuffing.

  The fog was worse when we got to the Golden Gate Bridge, and it didn’t lift as we passed the turnoff for Point Reyes. It was still with us when we got to Petaluma, and I was beginning to despair. And then, suddenly, the sun began to peek through. By the time we turned off toward Route 1 the fog had burned off, leaving one of those clear, bright days that make you happy to live in the Bay Area.

  “It’s probably snowing in New York,” I said, taking Michael’s hand.

  “Feeling sorry for your mother?” he asked.

  “No. Right this minute she’s telling her friend Dorothy how terrible I am, what an unfeeling child. She’s saying that I’ve ruined my life. And, by extension, hers. But I know it’s not true. She’ll have dinner with friends. She won’t have any dishes to do. She could have stayed. She chose to leave.” It was going to be all right. I could feel it.

  The New Boonville Hotel looked particularly beautiful, filled with people and festooned with fall leaves. Logs burned in the fireplaces, snapping and shining. The room smelled like applewood; promises of pigs and turkeys, apples and onions hovered in the air. Above it all, like the blare of a trumpet, rose the high, wild note of cinnamon. The tables were laden with dishes of walnuts, bowls of applesauce and crimson cranberry relish that glistened like jewelry. Vernon poured wine into crystal glasses. We settled in.

  “You were right,” said Michael, “it’s perfect for Thanksgiving. And I’ve never been hungrier.” He kissed me and said, “I can’t wait to find out what medieval turkey tastes like.”

  Half an hour later all the walnuts were gone and Michael was beginning to attack the applesauce. The people around us were restlessly playing with their knives, tapping their spoons, rustling their napkins. No food had appeared.

  “The people in the other dining room ate more bread than we expected, so Charlene’s baking a new batch,” the waiter said apologetically. “It will be out any minute. She’s even churning new butter.”

  “I need more than bread and butter. We spent three hours on the road. I’m starving,” said Michael.

  By the time another half hour had passed, his tune had changed. “Bread, a cracker, anything,” he pleaded as the waiter rushed past. He was checking his watch, tapping his feet. “It’s been an hour. Are we going to get anything?”

  “Soon,” promised the waiter. “Very soon.”

  When the bread arrived in the dining room a cheer went up, and we fell on it like starving people. Soup appeared soon after. The squash purée was bright orange with an earthy sweetness. Cream was drizzled through it, making patterns. Chives were strewn across the top. “Okay,” said Michael. “I’ll admit it. It’s the best soup I’ve ever tasted. I could eat ten bowls.” He looked at the waiter. “Is there more?”

  The waiter shook his head dolefully. He removed the plates. Outside it was growing dark. We waited, uneasily, listening to joyous sounds in the next room. “I think I heard someone say something about suckling pig!” said Michael. “I’m going to go see.”

  He came back looking glum. “They’ve got suckling pig in there. They’ve got roasted sweet potatoes and bowls of Brussels sprouts and something that looks suspiciously like dressing.” He stared at his empty plate and cried, “What are we, the Vietcong?”

  A waiter scurried past, his head down, carrying a bowl. He was attempting not to make eye contact, but Michael stopped him. “Can we please have some of the suckling pig they’re eating in there?” he asked in his most polite voice. The waiter held out the bowl with a guilty air. “This is all that’s left,” he said. “We mixed it with the stuffing to stretch it, make it go around, but there’s still not very much.” He ladled a minuscule mound onto each of our plates.

  “It’s delicious,” I said hopefully.

  “It’s one bite,” said Michael. “Did they eat all the Brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes too?”

  The waiter nodded unhappily. “But don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to serve the turkey in here first. And Charlene’s making mashed potatoes for you. And the most wonderful Savoy cabbage. And, of course, there’s salad. Not to mention all those pies.”

  “Can we expect to see any of this before tomorrow?” asked Michael.

  “I hope so,” said the waiter fervently, making his escape. “I’ll just go see how it’s doing.”

  “Next time you decide to come to the perfect restaurant for a meal, remind me to pack some candy bars,” said Michael morosely.

  “I know this is a drag,” I said. “But I’m sure the turkey’s going to be amazing. It will be worth it.”

  “It couldn’t be,” he said.

  The waiter came back bearing two big bowls as if they were crown jewels. He presented them proudly. One held a fluffy white mound of mashed potatoes crowned with streams of melting butter; little puffs of steam hovered over the top. Ruffled curls of Savoy cabbage lightly scented with chives and vinegar filled the other. “How much would you like?” he asked ingratiatingly.

  “All of it,” growled Michael. In the end he settled for about a third. “The turkey will be out any second,” said the waiter, piling vegetables onto our plates. “We just took the birds out of the oven, and they look gorgeous. So golden. And the smell! I’ll be right back.”

  But when he returned to the dining room, his hands were empty.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Michael. “They ate all the turkey in the other dining room?”

  “No,” said the waiter.

  “They’re just sharpening the carving knife?” I suggested brightly.

  The waiter shook his head.

  “The dogs made off with it?” I asked.

  The waiter looked as if he was about to cry. “You know that ancient recipe Vernon wanted to try?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it turns out there’s a reason they stopped using that recipe eight hundred years ago. We’ve got turkeys all right. They’re beautiful. They’re brown. They smell great. Just one small problem: They’re so tough you not only can’t carve them, the knife actually bounces off the bird.”

  Michael looked stricken. And then he started to laugh. I beg
an to laugh too. And then everybody in the dining room was laughing and clinking classes. “One more thing to be thankful for,” said Michael.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “We will never, ever have to come back here again.”

  We had apple pie and walnut pie and pumpkin pie topped with home-churned ice cream and followed by port and fresh walnuts. We had preserved peaches and homemade goat cheese. Sometime around midnight, after almost everyone else had gone home, Charlene appeared carrying a platter of duck.

  “And what does your family eat for Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked Michael.

  “Midnight duck,” he said. “It’s going to be an old family tradition.”

  * * *

  The New Boonville Hotel was an ambitious dream that didn’t last. Although there were spectacular disasters like the medieval turkey, there were also spectacular successes. These recipes, which are adapted from the ones that ran with the article I wrote about the restaurant in Metropolitan Home, are definitely among the successes.

  CHARLENE’S SEMOLINA EGG NOODLES WITH SMOKED HAM, ASPARAGUS, ONIONS, AND GARLIC

  Charlene Rollins made noodles in her own particular fashion; I’ve never seen another recipe quite like this one. But they are delicious, the dough is very easy to work, and the abundance of egg yolks makes the noodles a bright, astonishing gold. It goes without saying that the better the ham you toss into the topping, the more delicious the dish will be.

  FOR THE PASTA

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  1/2 cup semolina flour, plus additional for dusting

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  18 large egg yolks

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  FOR THE SAUCE

  1 large red onion, chopped

  salt and pepper

  1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter

  2 tablespoons finely chopped garlic

  1/4 cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley leaves

  1/2 cup water

  3/4 pound sliced smoked ham, cut into 1- by 1/4-inch strips

  1 pound medium asparagus spears, trimmed and cut diagonally into 1/2-inch-long pieces

  TO MAKE THE PASTA