Lacy Lovehart might disapprove. Not of the dress so much, but the message behind it.”
“That a woman can easily slip out of it?” I ask.
Mama laughs but then cuts a suspicious look at me. “How you come up with these things. . . .”
“Wear your St. John suit,” I say.
Daddy gave her that suit for Christmas, and it is her pride and joy.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Mama asks.
“Too much of everything is exactly enough,” I say, stealing a line I heard on a soap opera.
Mama lets out a little laugh. “Yes, but the St. John is so severe. Lacy Lovehart always looks so sunny and colorful when she’s photographed.”
“Well, sure. She’s trying to look like a peach.”
Mama laughs again and I feel myself inflate with the air she releases.
“Should I toss these hotdogs, or are they still good?” I hold up a leaky plastic package with two remaining Oscar Mayer wieners in it.
Hunter walks in from the living room, where he was watching Hollywood Squares. “I’ll take em,” he says.
“No, sir, you will not,” says Mama. “I’m using them for pork and beans tonight.”
Hunter grunts, then disappears into the walk-in pantry. “Did someone eat all the potato chips?” he calls.
I ignore him and keep talking to Mama. “What about that pink suit you bought at Mark Shale? With the little linen jacket with the bone buttons?”
“Potato chips?” yells Hunter.
“Excuse me?” says Mama, though she heard him perfectly.
“Please, Mama, where are the potato chips?”
“They’re in the bread box!” she calls. “And put them back when you’re finished. I don’t want them going stale.”
I hear thrashing around in the pantry, and then Hunter comes out, holding a bright yellow bag of Lay’s in one hand, stuffing them into his mouth with the other. Mama glances at him and frowns.
“I’ll tell you what the problem with that suit is: If I get hot and want to take off the jacket, the little silk blouse that goes with it is practically see-through. It absolutely requires a camisole.”
“So wear a camisole,” I say.
Hunter squints his eyes. “What’s a camisole?” he asks, pronouncing it “cam-saw.”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” answers Mama.
She turns her attention back to me. “I can certainly do that. The problem is, I don’t have an undergarment that works well beneath it, and I absolutely cannot host Lacy Lovehart . . .” She pauses, then whispers, “While not wearing a brassiere.”
“Wear the Mark Shale suit. And the camisole. And go buy a bra that works. Is it that the cups are too big?”
Hunter makes a noise of disgust and stomps out of the room.
Mama reaches out, rests her hand gently on my cheek. “Darling, how do you know about such things?”
Because I love looking at the pictures in your Vogue magazines, Mama. Because I notice anytime a woman’s slip shows. Because I know pink is a good color on you while yellow makes you look sickly. Because I’m me, Mama, and I’ve always been this way.
I smile, shrug my shoulders. “I dunno,” I say.
• • •
For parties, Mama always has everything ready in advance. “Ladies,” she warns in Gracious Servings, “when it comes to entertaining, take a lesson from the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared.”
The day of the Lacy Lovehart luncheon, Mama is nothing if not prepared. The crab dip, which will be served hot with Club Crackers, waits in the refrigerator, a sheet of plastic wrap adhered to the dip itself, so it won’t dry out. The toast cups—buttered pieces of crustless white bread, baked in muffin tins so they hold the shape—are stored in a large Ziploc bag. The chicken salad—all white meat, with fresh tarragon and peeled white grapes—is piled high into a pretty yellow bowl in the refrigerator, the sides wiped down so no signs of mixing remained. The Jell-O salad with bing cherries and pecans quivers in its mold. The crudités are cut and chilling in cold water to keep them crisp;
“That a woman can easily slip out of it?” I ask.
Mama laughs but then cuts a suspicious look at me. “How you come up with these things. . . .”
“Wear your St. John suit,” I say.
Daddy gave her that suit for Christmas, and it is her pride and joy.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Mama asks.
“Too much of everything is exactly enough,” I say, stealing a line I heard on a soap opera.
Mama lets out a little laugh. “Yes, but the St. John is so severe. Lacy Lovehart always looks so sunny and colorful when she’s photographed.”
“Well, sure. She’s trying to look like a peach.”
Mama laughs again and I feel myself inflate with the air she releases.
“Should I toss these hotdogs, or are they still good?” I hold up a leaky plastic package with two remaining Oscar Mayer wieners in it.
Hunter walks in from the living room, where he was watching Hollywood Squares. “I’ll take em,” he says.
“No, sir, you will not,” says Mama. “I’m using them for pork and beans tonight.”
Hunter grunts, then disappears into the walk-in pantry. “Did someone eat all the potato chips?” he calls.
I ignore him and keep talking to Mama. “What about that pink suit you bought at Mark Shale? With the little linen jacket with the bone buttons?”
“Potato chips?” yells Hunter.
“Excuse me?” says Mama, though she heard him perfectly.
“Please, Mama, where are the potato chips?”
“They’re in the bread box!” she calls. “And put them back when you’re finished. I don’t want them going stale.”
I hear thrashing around in the pantry, and then Hunter comes out, holding a bright yellow bag of Lay’s in one hand, stuffing them into his mouth with the other. Mama glances at him and frowns.
“I’ll tell you what the problem with that suit is: If I get hot and want to take off the jacket, the little silk blouse that goes with it is practically see-through. It absolutely requires a camisole.”
“So wear a camisole,” I say.
Hunter squints his eyes. “What’s a camisole?” he asks, pronouncing it “cam-saw.”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” answers Mama.
She turns her attention back to me. “I can certainly do that. The problem is, I don’t have an undergarment that works well beneath it, and I absolutely cannot host Lacy Lovehart . . .” She pauses, then whispers, “While not wearing a brassiere.”
“Wear the Mark Shale suit. And the camisole. And go buy a bra that works. Is it that the cups are too big?”
Hunter makes a noise of disgust and stomps out of the room.
Mama reaches out, rests her hand gently on my cheek. “Darling, how do you know about such things?”
Because I love looking at the pictures in your Vogue magazines, Mama. Because I notice anytime a woman’s slip shows. Because I know pink is a good color on you while yellow makes you look sickly. Because I’m me, Mama, and I’ve always been this way.
I smile, shrug my shoulders. “I dunno,” I say.
• • •
For parties, Mama always has everything ready in advance. “Ladies,” she warns in Gracious Servings, “when it comes to entertaining, take a lesson from the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared.”
The day of the Lacy Lovehart luncheon, Mama is nothing if not prepared. The crab dip, which will be served hot with Club Crackers, waits in the refrigerator, a sheet of plastic wrap adhered to the dip itself, so it won’t dry out. The toast cups—buttered pieces of crustless white bread, baked in muffin tins so they hold the shape—are stored in a large Ziploc bag. The chicken salad—all white meat, with fresh tarragon and peeled white grapes—is piled high into a pretty yellow bowl in the refrigerator, the sides wiped down so no signs of mixing remained. The Jell-O salad with bing cherries and pecans quivers in its mold. The crudités are cut and chilling in cold water to keep them crisp;
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