Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl Read Free Book Online Page A

devised other methods.”
    I could see the two of them hustling the cook out the door and dancing around the huge tiled kitchen. “It was such fun!” said Mrs. Peavey. “Before long I became known for having the best cook in Baltimore, and people clamored for invitations.”
    When she talked about her kitchen escapades, Mrs. Peavey’s voice always grew younger. “Once the British ambassador came from Washington to dinner,” she said dreamily. “We were only twelve at dinner that night so we decided to honor him by cooking dishes from Queen Victoria’s wedding dinner.”
    I watched jealously as she and Potter constructed complicated dishes. I loved the words: galantine, forcemeat, aspic, florentine … I saw them building the iced sweet pudding that was the dessert for the evening, holding my breath as the cherry- and almond-filled creation came tumbling precariously out of its old-fashioned mold. “I was so worried that the cook would spoil it,” Mrs. Peavey admitted, “that I asked the governess to feed the children in the kitchen. I knew Potter could fix anything that went wrong.”
    “The cook,” she added darkly, “was always the problem. But the night of the British ambassador went very smoothly. The truth is, she wasn’t much of a cook. She even asked me to teach her French cuisine. I tried,” said Mrs. Peavey, sadly shaking her head, “but she just didn’t have much imagination.”
    Watching Mrs. Peavey making gougère in the kitchen, I wondered what imagination had to do with it. Cooking, it seemed to me, was mostly a matter of organization. “Ah,” she said, “it is only because you have imagination that you say that.”
    She stirred eggs and cheese into the batter and bent to light the oven. “Be careful!” I called, remembering the time my mother set her hair on fire. Mrs. Peavey straightened up and looked directly at me. “I am not your mother,” she said succinctly. “I do not turn on the gas and then go into the living room looking for matches. Normal people do not set themselves on fire.”
    And then, as she leaned into the oven to put the gougère on the rack, she added, “And normal people do not allow eight-year-olds to baby-sit for themselves.”
    Mrs. Peavey did not approve of the way my mother had solved her baby-sitter problem. “I just pay Ruthie to take care of herself on the maid’s nights off,” my mother bragged to her friends. “She’s so grown-up.”
    I certainly didn’t want to disappoint my mother. So I never said a word as I watched my mother and father dressing for dinner, just held my breath and listened to their usual going-out-to-dinner ritual, wishing that just this once Mom would win.
    The ritual went like this. As she looked at the black dress hanging in the closet, Mom would say, “You know, dear, I don’t really feel very well. Why don’t you go without me?”
    And Dad would look concerned and tell her how dreary the evening would be without her. “It won’t be any fun without you, darling,” he’d say, urging her to come, for him. I would hang onevery word, willing them not to leave. But in the end, no matter how hard I hoped, my mother always allowed herself to be persuaded.
    “Don’t go to bed too late, Pussycat,” she’d say gaily, walking out the door in a cloud of perfume. As soon as they were gone I would begin running frantically around the house, much too scared to go to sleep, looking nervously in all the closets and underneath the beds.
    One night the doorbell rang as I was doing this and I jumped as if someone had snuck up and touched my shoulder. Who could it be? Walking stealthily to the door, I shouted, “Who’s there?” in a very deep voice; I didn’t want the person on the other side to think I was a kid.
    “It’s me, Ruthie,” said a voice I didn’t recognize.
    “Who’s me?” I asked, wondering how to handle this. It would be embarrassing to turn the person away, frightening to let her in.
    “Mrs. Peavey!” she