My Mother's Higher Education: A Story

My mother did not teach me how to paint my toenails. The most she ever said about my hair was, “Please use a comb before coming to the breakfast table.” As for boys, well, I was left to fend for myself, with her occasional urgent admonition to “Be careful.”

My mother did teach me how to make pâte à choux. But first, she taught herself.

My Grandma Mayer was far from accomplished in the kitchen. Her signature dish was the “crumb cookie,” a molded concoction of leftover sweets that reflected her depression-era upbringing. She could reliably roast any cut of meat to uniform greyness. The most fascinating things in her kitchen were the serrated grapefruit knives and the little TV in the corner so you could watch Joe Garagiola on the Today Show while you ate your grapefruit. Grandma taught my mother how to play Pinochle, but not much about cooking.

In a photo dated 1965, my mother is incredibly, unbelievably thin, chic in a simple sheath, holding the bundle that is my sister Jenny. She has just delivered her fifth baby in eight years. In the photo, there is little sign of her growing personal rebellion. While she cared for her numerous small children and kept house for her traveling salesman husband, she was quietly and steadily pushing beyond the bounds of her high school Home Ec class (where, it must be said, she obtained the recipe for the ultimate Pineapple Upside Down Cake).

My mother was reading the Rombauer.

Before Martha, before Julia’s show was available in Chicago, before there was a store other than Sears that carried kitchen utensils, there was the Joy of Cooking. Mom had the 1964 edition with the light blue cover, and she used it like a correspondence course. I remember spending hours looking at the table settings and the other charming and instructive drawings. My mother was poring through the pages, as well. How else was she coming up with Yorkshire Pudding? Crêpes Suzette? Beef Bourguignonne? Black Bottom Pie? Coq au Vin? Even her recipe for Tuna, Noodle and Mushroom Soup Casserole (“an excellent emergency dish”) was out of the Rombauer.

Mom obviously grew to trust Irma’s sage and encouraging voice because she loved to make pâte à choux. The preparation might seem intimidating, especially the first time: you make the dough in a pot on the stove. For a while, it looks like it will never work. The whole process is a leap of faith. But Irma is a cheerleader from the start, beginning the recipe with, “Please cease thinking of this basic, quite easy paste as something for adventurous moments only.” Her instructions are detailed and clear, using four trademark “pointers to success” icons to highlight critical steps like “the eggs must be at room temperature” and “do not move the tube.” She highlights the little details that ensure an elegant finished product: “The little point left when you lift the bag can be pressed down with a moistened finger.” When I helped in the kitchen, that’s the job I always wanted.

From Irma, Mom knew to cut open the shells and remove any damp dough, and let them dry out before filling them. Sometimes we’d have éclairs, with bitter chocolate icing; sometimes little profiteroles with ice cream. Mostly though, she’d make cream puffs, big ones the size of baseballs, and she trusted the Rombauer for the recommended filling: sweetened whipped cream and “a flawless ripe strawberry.”

So, I grew up with nail polish on my cuticles, but with no fear of pâte à choux. It’s not a preparation that I make often, but it’s like riding a bike, right? When my good friend mentioned that her French husband had requested a croquembouche for their 25th wedding anniversary, I jumped at the chance to make it for them. I should have hosted the party, because getting the dessert to their house in the car was the really scary part.