When I wrote my cookbook, people often told me they wished I had written more about my mom. Those who know me well know my baking, and since my short pieces about Mom centered around how she patiently taught me to bake as a little boy, I think they wanted more of that. But the truth is, by the time I was thirteen, my mom was already showing signs of dementia, so the memories I have of talking with her and baking with her end there. We just didn't have enough time together, so there aren't many more stories to tell.
One gauzy memory involves her coffee pot. Like many old fashioned couples, my parents had a set of fine china. Some of it may have come to them as wedding gifts—couples often registered for gifts back then, and buying a newlywed couple a place setting used to be common. Their plates and coffee cups were Continental China, made in Germany, and designed by Raymond Loewy. The thin, simple white plates have a loopy black script, forming a circle in the center. Twenty years after they had been married, my dad went to Germany on a business trip, and mom insisted he order her a coffee pot and two large oval platters, which he had shipped to our home in the Chicago suburbs.
The coffee pot was rarely used, but when it was, it was during my mother's kaffeeklatsches—intermittent, weekday afternoon gatherings—with other full time homemakers, in the newly developed neighborhood. My older siblings were in all in school then, but I was young enough at four or five to still be at home most days, and I can vaguely remember that small group of ladies sitting around the low slung marble coffee table in our living room, gossiping, laughing, eating cake, sharing recipes, and drinking cup after cup of coffee.
I'm sure I crawled onto Mom's lap (she was petite: 5'1 and 115 pounds, but as a child, I remember her having a wide lap, and strong legs). Affectionate and curious, I probably inserted myself into the chattering circle and was happy to answer any questions they may have asked me. "Christopher is a very happy baby," Mom wrote in the notes section of my photo album. "He likes people, sings and dances, was never shy."
I can't remember much about who was there and what they asked me, but I remember how it felt: warm and full and sweet. There were cookies and a sugar bowl, a simple creamer (when one of us broke it years later, she probably said, "Can't I ever have anything nice?"). I remember the clink of the porcelain cups as they were set down into the perfect groove of the little saucer. I still love that sound today, fifty years later. I watched my mother pour the coffee, dark and cocoa brown, from the elegant tall white pot; I studied how she held the lid on securely with one hand while she poured with the other, how she smiled, how she moved her hair away from her eyes. She was beautiful and kind, and she had a way of making people feel safe. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.