Digging into detail

Making story from a sliver of memory

Good writing means noting, noticing, remembering, zeroing in on details. That’s why I joke that we memoir writers are at our desks poking ourselves in the gut, while so-called “normal” people, who don’t take note and remember and try to make sense of the past, are at the mall, buying watches.

We writers struggle to put down the specifics of experiences. Because the closer we get to telling our own deepest truths, the more meaningful our stories are for others. That’s the mystery of memoir.

If a memory comes back to you strongly, delve into it, explore it. Sometimes, one small thing can trigger another small thing that somehow brings a great deal back. Write it in as much detail as you can. And then, if possible, attach it to something else. Take it one step further.

Recently, a friend who’d learned about my love for anything lemony brought me a birthday gift: a homemade lemon tart. And as I tasted her gift, I remembered.

FUSSY EATER

I was a child who said no to food, all food except peanut butter, plain chicken, and my mother’s homemade macaroni and cheese, though not the crusty cheese baked hard on top. I liked my food soft, bland, and, preferably, white. Otherwise, I wanted nothing to do with the stuff. Hated onions — ugh, slimy! — and tomatoes, in fact all vegetables and most fruits, except apples. Anything with mysterious lumps or spices. Meals were a painful battle with my parents, which I always lost. One time I wouldn’t touch the bitter green balls of mush on my plate called Brussels sprouts, and my mother snarled, “You can sit there until they’re gone!”

Eventually I threw up on them, and she said, “Eat them anyway.” But for once, she didn’t make me.

Visiting my American grandparents, my father’s parents in New York, was a special trial. My grandmother loved me, that was sure, and I wanted to please her, but I hated everything she cooked. Her background was Russian-Jewish, and she specialized in chopped chicken liver, borscht, and gefilte fish. You can imagine how I felt about those. My father was in heaven, slurping, devouring, moaning with pleasure.

My other grandparents, my mother’s parents, lived in London, England. Their small apartment in Baron’s Court was cold and dark; everything smelled damp except the parlour upstairs, the only room that allowed in light and sun. We’d go downstairs to the gloomy dining room in the basement, to have dinner by the gas fire. For a special meal, we’d have roast beef, a huge extravagance for my grandparents, and roasted potatoes – plain foods I didn’t mind, if only I didn’t have to touch the vegetables. Which I did, I had to choke down a few obligatory peas and carrots.

After the main course, one time, my grandmother appeared holding a dish of something white that she cut into slices. She presented me with a wobbly triangle on a plate, bright yellow with crust underneath and fluffy white on top. I knew I’d have to eat at least a bit or there’d be trouble. With dread, I cut a tiny piece with my fork and tentatively put it in my mouth. Something melted all over my tongue, the taste of lemons and sweet sticky whiteness. It was … it was good. Really good. Lemon and other flavours, rich; my whole mouth exploding with pleasure, coming alive. Here was some strange foodstuff I’d never had before, and it was delicious. I ate every morsel on my plate, licked my fork, and asked for more. They all turned to look at me.

My grandmother’s lemon meringue pie, “made,” she told me proudly, “with three lemons,” introduced me to a startling new concept: enjoyment in eating.

Once I’d left home and meals stopped being a power struggle, I began to sample new dishes like a grownup. At twenty-one I was at theatre school in London when an English friend invited me to her home for dinner, and her mother served Brussels sprouts. I tried them to be polite, and, just as I’d recently discovered the goodness of tomatoes, I discovered Brussels sprouts. Next day I mailed my parents a fake telegram: “Miracles happen stop. Have enjoyed Brussels sprouts stop. Can onions be next stop.”

And they were.

I now have a tall, stubborn twelve-year-old grandson who’s as fussy as I was, or even fussier. To my despair, he craves junk food, anything too salty or too sweet, and spurns almost everything else. I feel as impatient with his pickiness as my mother was with mine. But he does like three things that are good for him: salmon, avocado, and rice. When he comes to visit, that’s what I prepare: a pile of salmon steaks, a tower of brown rice, and a sliced avocado or two so there’s some green. It’s the only healthy food I’ve ever seen him eat with pleasure.

As I watch him do so, I taste lemon on my tongue.