Dear Cameron:
I have survived Mother’s first postdivorce party. It was quite a charming gathering, although I did not find the conversation all that different from the more traditional neighborhood parties that she and Daddy used to give. People still droned on about floor coverings and children; I did not see that having the opposite sex introduce the topic made the discussion any more scintillating. I must be depressed. I find everyone boring; but they were all quite likable folks, and I’m sure Mother will be happy with her new social set.
If she doesn’t starve to death.
Apparently, while I was frivoling my youth away in Scotland, eating went out of fashion in the U.S. Long before dinner was served, the guests began talking about their various dietary requirements. Most of them were vegetarians or vegans, and a few were ovo-lacto vegetarians, although Tim Burruss is really a reckless hedonist: he eats fish- once a week, steamed or broiled. I did think that in his honor (and mine) a salmon mousse-or even a moose mousse-could have been sacrificed for the sake of the unregenerate carnivores, but obviously our hostesses were not feeling quite so wickedly unconventional. The fish was spared, and we starved.
I was wondering if I ought to slip outside and promise Bill a stop at Burger King on the way home, but then he got called away to see about one of his clients, so I was left in the-well, not the lion’s den; that would have been an improvement-in the koala pen with the leaf junkies. That will teach me to skip lunch.
Mother and Casey served a three-lettuce salad- plain, of course; some boiled asparagus; an orange slice on a toothpick; and something that Mother called polenta au naturel.
“Mother, it’s grits!” I hissed at her. It was. Unbuttered, unsalted grits.
“I know, dear,” she replied serenely. “It’s almost the only thing that everyone would eat. And, just think, it’s so much better for you without all that butter and salt. One needs to watch one’s diet as one grows older.”
I wondered if she was referring to herself or to me. I trust the former, because if that’s a sample of what I have to eat in order to reach thirty, I’d just as soon not go. I did not complain, however. I sat there dutifully, pushing forkfuls of grits and endive from one side of my plate to the other, and fantasizing about top sirloin and ketchup-laden french fries, followed by chocolate syrup over anything. The conversation was rather antifood anyhow-distinctly unappetizing. I asked for some sugar to go in my tea (not real tea: stewed weeds). Apparently, this request constituted blasphemy. Casey looked grieved and declared that refined sugar was quite poisonous to the system, but that they did have some honey, if I wanted some.
I was about to settle for that when Annie Graham-Robeson remarked, “That isn’t much of an improvement over granulated poison. Did you ever stop to think that honey is actually bee vomit?”
Well, no, I hadn’t ever thought of it in quite that picturesque way, though I shall never be able to think of it otherwise again. It did, however, dull my enthusiasm for squirting some of it into my drink. I drank weak herbal tea straight, hoping that the bitter taste of it would kill my appetite before anybody heard my stomach growling. Apparently, it is now chic to brag about how little you eat. That established, they all went back to talking university gossip, and about the many uses of pesto. At that point my mind glazed over.
I wish I could remember what we used to talk about. I only remember that I was never bored. And sometimes, I think that if I can’t ever talk to you again, I’d be better off eating unbuttered grits until I waste away into nothingness. If that’s where you are, it can’t be all that bad.
Love,
Elizabeth