There are a number of scenes in my novel Old Music for New People that make me cry whenever I read them. I began writing that book in or around 2013. It is an understatement to say I re-wrote and revised that story dozens of times. So many scenes are emblazoned in my objective editing brain (such as it is). You’d think by now I would be somewhat immune/bored or at least distant from those scenes. But I’m not. Maybe it’s because the story is about the summer of 2013–a much sweeter, more innocent time for all of us on planet earth.
Whatever, the case, here’s one of the scenes I’m talking about. Ivy has been surprised to learn that her cousin Rita doesn’t know anything about kitchens and cooking. Ivy’s spent her whole life in the kitchen learning how to prepare food from her mother (who is also an eye surgeon).
In the kitchen, I turned to Rita and said, “We really are going to make fruit salad, okay?”
She took a deep breath. “You’re going to need to show me what to do.”
I could feel Del inching out of the room behind me. Zaxy was in the great room playing a game, on an iPad. Our big brother was happier watching and advising Zaxy about little-kid computer games than helping make dinner.
“We’re going to start with the strawberries,” I said. I took a quart basket out of the refrigerator, rinsed them in the sink, then handed Rita a serrated paring knife. I had another one for myself and started slicing the strawberry tops off, then piling the berry parts on the cutting board in front of Rita. “We need them smaller,” I said. “Bite size. Cut them in half, maybe in quarters for the really big ones.” I figured that was a simple enough thing to do.
But I watched out of the corner of my eye, just in case. Rita was handling the trimmed strawberries like she was trying to make mushy red scrambled eggs. Rather than holding the knife with her fingertips, she had it mangled into her fist. She didn’t so much cut as mash down. Even with the sharpened blade, little pieces of strawberry shot through the air around us. I watched her destroy three of them. We were definitely going to have a mess on our hands. All of a sudden, Mom was standing to Rita’s right.
“Stop,” she said with her hand hovering over the cutting board. I could hear the smile in my mother’s voice and see it as well by the way her hand was bobbing in the air. Rita squeezed her eyes shut tight. I couldn’t tell if she was about to freak out somehow or was just counting her blessings for Mom’s help.
“First of all, you need to relax,” Mom said. She put her hand on Rita’s wrist. “Calm down. Never hold a paring knife like you want to kill someone. It’s not a weapon. It’s an instrument. You need to learn that. Maybe someday you’ll want to become a surgeon.”
“I don’t think I want to be a surgeon,” Rita said.
“Yes, well, no matter what you become in life, you want to hold a knife with your fingertips when you’re cutting soft fruits and vegetables. And you must relax. But also, no hesitating,” Mom said. “Slice. Just slice. Let the blade do the work. You are in charge of both the blade and the strawberry.”
We both kind of spluttered at that. Rita let her hand relax, held the knife handle with her fingers, then sliced, and the berry became two. Not perfect, but so much better than she’d been doing.
Mom moved down the counter and picked up her wine glass. “Another.”
Rita cut. This time she did it perfectly.
“All right. That’s good,” said Mom. She took a sip of wine. I could hear Zax asking Delmore a question out in the other room.
“You’re going to be a great surgeon someday,” Mom said to Rita. “Just keep slicing strawberries and it will all work out.”
Rita smiled. I went back to work rinsing and cutting off all the bad bits, piling berries up on the side of the cutting board for Rita.
Mom watched us for a while. Finally, she said, “We need music. I’ll be back in a sec.” She bustled out of the room.
“Wow,” Rita said.
I nodded a couple times, then said, “She’s kind of scientific about things in the kitchen.”
“No. She’s so cool. I mean . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about kitchens or food. But now I want to learn. I mean, I need to learn.”
“Stick with us, then. Mom’s full of that kind of thing.”
From “Chapter 2: How to Be a Girl”
Why, you may ask, do I cry when I read this? I don’t know exactly. Ivy lives in a very tender spot of my imagination. She speaks for many girls and women I have known in my life. Her mother, Rikely, is also an amalgamation of many mothers I know, mostly in my generation–so many of the mothers whose children I have coached over the years as my sons grew up. Those women were strong and confident in so many ways, and still are now that their kids have grown up and become adults in the world.
Maybe, too, I cry because Ivy has a piece of my own mother in her, or what I imagine my mother might have been had she been Rikely Scattergood’s daughter. She wasn’t, though. Her mother was about as unsupportive and unreasonable as any mother from the early part of the 20th century could be. She almost despised my mother for accepting a scholarship to Wellesley College (even just going to any college) and for being a star athlete (state champion tennis player, world speed skating record holder in 1943, to name just a few). I don’t think my maternal grandmother taught my mother a thing. My mother’s mother was scary as hell by the time we came along. Rikely is the answer to what my mom was searching for her whole life.
David Biddle
View More PostsDavid Biddle is a freelance writer and novelist living in Philadelphia, PA and the author of the novel OLD MUSIC FOR NEW PEOPLE. His new novel, a science fiction story called SOUND EFFECT INFINITY, is due out in early 2025. Pre-order the special hardcover edition now wherever books are sold.
