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At an early age, Ruth Reichl discovered that "food could be a

way of *** sense of the world. . . . If you watched people as

they ate, you could find out who they were." Her deliciously

crafted memoir, Tender at the Bone, is the story of a life

determined, enhanced, and defined in equal measure by a passion for

food, unf***ettable people, and the love of tales well

told.Beginning with Reichl's mother, the notorious

food-poisoner known as the Queen of Mold, Reichl introduces us to

the fascinating characters who shaped he***orld and her tastes,

from the gourmand M***ieur du Croix, who served Reichl her first

soufflé, to those at her politically correct table in Berkeley who

championed the ***anic food revolution in the

1970s.Spiced with Reichl's infectious humor and

sprinkled with her favorite recipes, Tender at the Bone is a

witty and compelling chronicle of a culinary sensualist's

coming-of-age.

The Queen of Mold

Grandmothers

Mrs. Peavey

Mars

Devil's Food

The Tart

Serafina

Summer of Love

The Philosopher of the Table

Tunis

Love Story

Eyesight for the Blind

Paradise Loft

Berkeley

The Swallow

Another Party

Keep Tasting

The Bridge

Acknowledgments

A Reader's Guide

At an early age, Ruth Reichl discovered that "food could be a

way of *** sense of the world. . . . If you watched people as

they ate, you could find out who they were." Her deliciously

crafted memoir, Tender at the Bone, is the story of a life

determined, enhanced, and defined in equal measure by a passion for

food, unf***ettable people, and the love of tales well

told.  Beginning with Reichl's mother, the notorious

food-poisoner known as the Queen of Mold, Reichl introduces us to

the fascinating characters who shaped he***orld and her tastes,

from the gourmand M***ieur du Croix, who served Reichl her first

soufflé, to those at her politically correct table in Berkeley who

championed the ***anic food revolution in the

1970s.  Spiced with Reichl's infectious humor and

sprinkled with her favorite recipes, Tender at the Bone is a

witty and compelling chronicle of a culinary sensualist's

coming-of-age.

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Most mornings I got out of bed and went to the refrigerator to

see how my mothe***as feeling. You could tell instantly just by

opening the door. One day in 1960 I found a w*** suckling pig

staring at me. I jumped back and slammed the door, hard. Then I

opened it again. I'd never seen a w*** animal in our refrigerator

before; even the chickens came in parts. He was surrounded by tiny

crab apples ("

lady apples

" my mother corrected me later),

and a w*** wreath of weird vegetables.

This was not a bad sign: the more odd and interesting things there

were in the refrigerator, the happier my mothe***as likely to be.

Still, I was puzzled; the refrigerator in our small kitchen had

been almost empty when I went to bed.

"Where did you get all this stuff?" I asked. "The stores aren't

open yet."

"Oh," said Mom blithely, patting at her crisp gray hair, "I woke up

early and decided to go for a walk. You'd be surprised at what goes

on in Manhattan at four A.M. I've been down to the Fulton Fish

Market. And I found the most interesting produce store on Bleecker

Street."

"It was open?" I asked.

"Well," she admitted, "not really." She walked across the worn

linoleum and set a basket of bread on the Formica table. "But I saw

someone moving around so I knocked. I've been trying to get ideas

for the party."

"Party?" I asked warily. "What party?"

"Your brother has decided to get married," she said casually, as if

I should have somehow intuited this in my sleep. "And of course

we're going to have a party to celebrate the engagement and meet

Shelly's family!"

My brother, I knew, would not welcome this news. He was thirteen

years older than I and c***idered it a minor miracle to have

reached the age of twenty-five. "I don't know how I survived her

cooking," he said as he was telling me about the years when he and

Mom were living alone, after she had divorced his father and was

waiting to meet mine. "She's a menace to society."

Bob went to live with his father in Pittsburgh right after I was

born, but he always came home for holidays. When he was there he

always helped me protect the guests, using tact to keep them from

eating the more dangerous items.

I took a more direct approach. "Don't eat that," I ordered my best

friend Jeanie as her spoon dipped into one of Mom's more creative

lunch dishes. My mother believed in celebrating every holiday: in

honor of St. Patrick she was serving bananas with green sour

cream.

"I don't mind the color," said Jeanie, a trusting soul whose own

mothe***ouldn't dream of offering you an all-orange Halloween

extravaganza complete with milk dyed the color of orange juice. Ida

served the sort of perfect lunches that I longed for: neat squares

of cream cheese and jelly on white bread, bologna sandwiches, Chef

Boyardee straight from the can.

"It's not just food coloring," I said. "The sour cream was green to

begin with; the carton's been in the refrigerator for

months."

Jeanie quickly put her spoon down and when Mom went into the other

room to answer the phone we ducked into the bathroom and flushed

our lunches down the toilet.

"That was great, Mim," said Jeanie when Mom returned.

"May we be excused?" is all I said. I wanted to get away from the

table before anything else appeared.

"Don't you want dessert?" Mom asked.

"Sure," said Jeanie.

"No!" I said. But Mom had already gone to get the cookies. She

returned with some strange black lumps on a plate. Jeanie looked at

them dubiously, then politely picked one up.

"Oh, go ahead, eat it," I said, reaching for one myself. "They're

just Girl Scout mint cookies. She left them on the radiator so all

the chocolate melted off, but they won't kill you."

As we munched our cookies, Mom asked idly, "What do you girls think

I should serve for Bob's engagement party?"

"You're not going to have the party here, are you?" I asked,

holding my breath as I looked around at our living room, trying to

see it with a stranger's eye.

Mom had moments of decorating inspiration that usually died before

the project was finished. The last one, a romance with Danish

modern, had brought a teak dining table, a wicker chair that looked

like an egg and hung from a chain, and a Rya rug into our lives.

The huge turquoise abstract painting along one wall dated from that

period too. But Mom had, as usual, gotten bored, so they were all

mixed togethe***ith my grandmother's drum table, an ornate

breakfront, and some Japanese prints from an earlier, more

c***ervative period.

Then there was the bathroom, my mother's greatest decorating feat.

One day she had decided, on the spur of the moment, to install gold

towels, a gold shower curtain, and a gold rug. They were no

problem. But painting all the porcelain gold was a disaster; it

almost immediately began peeling off the sink and it was years

before any of us could take a bath without emerging slightly

gilded.

My father found all of this slightly amusing. An intellectual who

had escaped his wealthy German-Jewish family by coming to America

in the twenties, he had absolutely no interest in

things

. He

was a book designe***ho lived in a black-and-white world of paper

and type; books were his only passion. He was kindly and detached

and if he had known that people described him as elegant, he would

have been shocked; clothes bored him enormously, when he noticed

them at all.

"No," said Mom. I exhaled. "In the country. We have more room in

Wilton. And we need to welcome Shelly into the family

properly."

I pictured our small, shabby summer house in the woods. Wilton is

only an hour from New York, but in 1960 it was still very rural. My

parents had bought the land cheaply and designed the house

themselves. Since they couldn't afford an architect, they had

miscalculated a bit, and the downstairs bedrooms were very

strangely shaped. Dad hardly knew how to hold a hammer, but to save

money he had built the house himself with the aid of a carpenter.

He was very proud of his handiwork, despite the drooping roof and

awkward layout. He was even prouder of our long, rutted, meandering

driveway. "I didn't want to cut down a single tree!" he said

proudly when people asked why it was so crooked.

I loved the house, but I was slightly embarrassed by its unpainted

wooden walls and unconventional character. "Why can't we have the

party in a ***el?" I asked. In my mind's eye I saw Shelly's

impeccable mother, who seemed to go to the beauty parlor every day

and wore nothing but custom-made clothes. Next to her, Mom, a

handsome woman who refused to dye her hair, rarely wore makeup, and

had very colorful taste in clothes, looked almost bohemian.

Shelly's mothe***ore an enormous diamond ring on her beautifully

manicured finger; my mother didn't even wear a wedding band and her

fingernails were short and haphazardly polished.

"N***ense," said Mom. "It will be

much

nicer to have it at

home. So much more intimate. I'd like them to see how we live, find

out who we are."

"Great," I said under my breath to Jeanie. "That'll be the end of

Bob's engagement. And a couple of the relatives might die, but who

worries about little things like that?"

"Just make sure she doesn't serve steak tartare," said Jeanie,

giggling.

Steak tartare was the bane of my existence: Dad

always

made

it for parties. It was a performance. First he'd break an egg yolk

into the mound of raw chopped steak, and then he'd begin folding

minced oni*** and capers and Worcestershire sauce into the meat. He

looked tall and suave as he mixed thoughtfully and then asked, his

German accent very pronounced, for an assistant taster. Together

they added a little more of this or that and then Dad carefully

mounded the meat into a round, d***d some anchovies across the

top, and asked me to serve it.

My job was to spread the stuff onto slices of party pumpernickel

and pass the tray. Unless I had bought the meat myself I tried not

to let the people I liked best taste Dad's chef d'oeuvre. I knew

that my mother bought prepackaged hamburger meat at the supermarket

and that if there happened to be some half-price, day-old stuff she

simply couldn't resist it. With ou***ell-trained stomachs my father

and I could take whatever Mom was dishing out, but for most people

it was pure poison.

Just thinking about it made me nervous. "I've got to stop this

party," I said.

"How?" asked Jeanie.

I didn't know. I had four months to figure it out.

My best hope was that my mother's mood would change before the

party took place. That was not unrealistic; my mother's moods were

erratic. But March turned into April and April into May and Mom was

still buzzing around. The phone rang c***tantly and she was feeling

great. She cut her gray hair very short and actually started

wearing nail polish. She lost weight and bought a w*** new

wardrobe. Then she and Dad took a quick cruise to the

Caribbean.

"We booked passage on a United Fruit freighter," she said to her

friends, "so much more interesting than a conventional cruise."

When asked about the revoluti*** that were then rocking the islands

she had a standard resp***e: "The bomb in the ***el lobby in Haiti

made the trip much more interesting."

When they returned she threw herself into planning the party. I got

up every morning and looked hopefully into the

refrigerator.  Things kept getting worse. Half a baby

goat appeared. Next there was cactus fruit. But the morning I found

the box of chocolate-covered grasshoppers I decided it was time to

talk to Dad.

"The plans are getting more elaborate," I said ominously.

&q...

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编辑推荐

“Reading Ruth Reichl on food is almost as good as eating

it.”—Washington Post Book World

“An absolute delight to read...How lucky we are that [Ruth Reichl]

had the courage to follow her appetite.”—Newsday

“A poignant, yet hilarious, collection of stories about people

[Reichl] has known and loved, and who, knowingly or unknowingly,

steered her on the path to fulfill her destiny as one of the

world’s leading food writers.”—Chicago Sun-Times

“While all good food writers are humorous...few are so riotously,

effortlessly entertaining as Ruth Reichl.”—New York Times Book

Review

“A savory memoir of [Reichl’s] apprentice years...Reichl describes

[her] experiences with infectious humor...The de*i*** of each

sublime taste are mouthwateringly precise...A perfectly balanced

stew of memories.”—Kirkus Reviews

书籍介绍

At an early age, Ruth Reichl discovered that "food could be a way of *** sense of the world. . . . If you watched people as they ate, you could find out who they were." Her deliciously crafted memoir, Tender at the Bone , is the story of a life determined, enhanced, and defined in equal measure by a passion for food, unf***ettable people, and the love of tales well told.Beginning with Reichl's mother, the notorious food-poisoner known as the Queen of Mold, Reichl introduces us to the fascinating characters who shaped he***orld and her tastes, from the gourmand M***ieur du Croix, who served Reichl her first soufflé, to those at her politically correct table in Berkeley who championed the ***anic food revolution in the 1970s.Spiced with Reichl's infectious humor and sprinkled with her favorite recipes, Tender at the Bone is a witty and compelling chronicle of a culinary sensualist's coming-of-age.