To be totally honest, I didn’t want to go to my mom’s book club. It wasn’t that I didn’t think it would be fun, or that I don’t like tagging along with my mother on her social calls. It was just that it was Friday night, I had been sitting at my desk all day, only to then wedge myself onto a crowded bus to sit for another two hours, and was going to have to drive with my mom for half an hour back in the direction from which I came. To be frank, my ass had had enough. I wanted to sprawl, or better yet, to walk, and I really, really needed a drink.
But stepping into the most perfect house in which I could imagine kids skating on the hardwood flowers in their footed pajamas, I remembered how marvelous it feels to be folded into the warmth of someone else’s home, to be welcomed at a table crowded with delicious edibles, and to be in the company of women who are much older and wiser and more graceful than you. I remembered also how proud I feel sitting next to my mom, watching others seek her advice and delight in her company. You take that for granted when you’re a daughter and that advice has been given freely all your life, just the way you take for granted how radiant she is when she laughs and just how much she taught you about how to be a woman.
I hadn’t read the book, so I listened and gabbed too much about what seemed related — pictures I’d seen or things I’d overheard once or articles I had read. It was the wine, I think, that made me talk so much, and my desire to have my mom think, See this is my daughter. Isn’t she delightful and smart and compassionate? I asked her on the ride home if I had embarrassed her. She assured me no, why, had she embarrassed me? And I think now, how absurd to have asked each other these questions when the happy, tired, chatty feeling in the car driving home said everything. But it was that pang of uncertainty that every daughter feels from time to time — is she proud? does she like me as a person and not just a daughter? You feel it perhaps even more keenly when you get a real glimpse of her. A mother is someone so close to you, so much a part of you that you don’t always really see her. But then, when you get an eyeful of what others see, you get a look at what you know but sometimes forget: that she is very, very cool and that you are very, very lucky. I said no, you didn’t embarrass me. I wish I had also added: in fact, mom, totally the opposite.
Potato and Leek Gratin
Serves 6
I am sort of obsessed with potato gratin and collect recipes for it as if they were sea-smoothed shells. It’s just one of those dishes that, for me, embodies pure comfort and a particular kind of cozy bistro dining that never loses its appeal. After several tries of different recipes, I think I’ve found the version I may stick to, a variation on the recipe our book club host made. Studded with leeks, this potato gratin has tastes of brightness in each bite, a nice foil to the milk and heavenly gruyère cheese.
2 pounds peeled Yukon gold potatoes, sliced thinly on a mandoline or in a food processor
2 leeks, sliced into rounds, white and light green parts only
1 clove garlic, minced
2 cups milk
1 1/2 cups grated gruyère cheese
1 tablespoon butter, plus some for baking dish
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Put leeks in a bowl of water to remove any clinging dirt. When leeks are clean, shake dry, and sauté over moderate heat with garlic and butter until soft and aromatic, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Butter a large ceramic baking dish and line with a layer of sliced potatoes, followed by a layer of leeks, and topped with a gruyère. Repeat layering pattern, pour in the milk, and finish with a generous sprinkling of gruyère on top. Place dish on a baking sheet to protect your oven from volcanic overflow and bake for 50-60 minutes, until bubblingly hot and cheese is browned in spots.
