More About Dad

January 6, 2016

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There are so many touching comments on the post I wrote yesterday about my father that I thought I’d share a little more.

What I remember best about Dad is his excitement when he found a book he thought that Mom and I would love.  He’d bring the galleys home saying, “You have to read this!”  That’s how I first discovered Kurt Vonnegut; when Dad designed Cat’s Cradle, he insisted we read the book. I became an instant and lifelong Vonnegut fan.

Then there was I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, a seminal novel about mental illness. Because we knew by then that Mom was bipolar, the book resonated especially strongly with all us.  You have to read it! I went on to many of the author’s other books.  I especially recommend In This Sign to anyone who wants to understand how it feels to be born deaf.

Dad’s career began in the days of letterpress, but he was entranced by the possibilities of the future.  In 1975 I gave him a subscription to a magazine called Fine Print. He was very gentle about it, but he said, “I never knew you considered me a luddite.  I don’t yearn for the past.  I think the computer is going to be the greatest tool a designer ever had.”  It makes me sad he’s not around to see what’s going on today.

If you want to know what Dad was like at home, I think this excerpt from Tender at the Bone, pretty much says it all.  I might add that no matter what Mom had served us, at the end of every meal Dad would reach out, take her hand, kiss it and thank her for dinner.  Then he’d turn to me and say, “Your mother is a wonderful cook.”


This is a true story.

Imagine a New York City apartment at six in the morning. It is a modest apartment in Greenwich Village. Coffee is bubbling in an electric percolator. On the table is a basket of rye bread, an entire coffee cake, a few cheeses, a platter of cold cuts. My mother has been making breakfast–a major meal in our house, one where we sit down to fresh orange juice every morning, clink our glasses as if they held wine, and toast each other with “Cheerio. Have a nice day.” Right now she is the only one awake, but she is getting impatient for the day to begin and she cranks WQXR up a little louder on the radio, hoping that the noise will rouse everyone else. But Dad and I are good sleepers, and when the sounds of martial music have no effect she barges into the bedroom and shakes my father awake.

“Darling,” she says, “I need you. Get up and come into the kitchen.”

My father, a sweet and accommodating person, shuffles sleepily down the hall. He is wearing loose pajamas, and the strand of hair he combs over his bald spot stands straight up. He leans against the sink, holding on to it a little, and obediently opens his mouth when my mother says, “Try this.”

Later, when he told the story, he attempted to convey the awfulness of what she had given him. The first time he said that it tasted like cat toes and rotted barley, but over the years the description got better. Two years later it had turned into pigs’ snouts and mud and five years later he had refined the flavor into a mixture of antique anchovies and moldy chocolate.

Whatever it tasted like, he said it was the worst thing he had ever had in his mouth, so terrible that it was impossible to swallow, so terrible that he leaned over and spit it into the sink and then grabbed the coffeepot, put the spout into his mouth, and tried to eradicate the flavor.

My mother stood there watching all this. When my father finally put the coffeepot down she smiled and said, “Just as I thought. Spoiled!”

And then she threw the mess into the garbage can and sat down to drink her orange juice.

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For the longest time I thought I had made this story up. But my brother insists that my father told it often, and with a certain amount of pride. As far as I know, my mother was never embarrassed by the telling, never even knew that she should have been. It was just the way she was.

Which was taste-blind and unafraid of rot. “Oh, it’s just a little mold,” I can remember her saying on the many occasions she scraped the fuzzy blue stuff off some concoction before serving what was left for dinner. She had an iron stomach and was incapable of understanding that other people did not.

This taught me many things. The first was that food could be dangerous, especially to those who loved it. I took this very seriously. My parents entertained a great deal, and before I was ten I had appointed myself guardian of the guests. My mission was to keep Mom from killing anybody who came to dinner.

Her friends seemed surprisingly unaware that they took their lives in their hands each time they ate with us. They chalked their ailments up to the weather, the flu, or one of my mother’s more unusual dishes. “No more sea urchins for me,” I imagined Burt Langner saying to his wife, Ruth, after a dinner at our house, “they just don’t agree with me.” Little did he know that it was not the sea urchins that had made him ill, but that bargain beef my mother had found so irresistible.

“I can make a meal out of anything,” Mom told her friends proudly. She liked to brag about “Everything Stew,” a dish invented while she was concocting a casserole out of a two-week-old turkey carcass. (The very fact that my mother confessed to cooking with two-week-old turkey says a lot about her.) She put the turkey and a half can of mushroom soup into the pot. Then she began rummaging around in the refrigerator. She found some leftover broccoli and added that. A few carrots went in, and then a half carton of sour cream. In a hurry, as usual, she added green beans and cranberry sauce. And then, somehow, half an apple pie slipped into the dish. Mom looked momentarily horrified. Then she shrugged and said, “Who knows? Maybe it will be good.” And she began throwing everything in the refrigerator in along with it–leftover pate, some cheese ends, a few squishy tomatoes.

That night I set up camp in the dining room. I was particularly worried about the big eaters, and I stared at my favorite people as they approached the buffet, willing them away from the casserole. I actually stood directly in front of Burt Langner so he couldn’t reach the turkey disaster. I loved him, and I knew that he loved food.

Unknowingly I had started sorting people by their tastes. Like a hearing child born to deaf parents, I was shaped by my mother’s handicap, discovering that food could be a way of making sense of the world.

At first I paid attention only to taste, storing away the knowledge that my father preferred salt to sugar and my mother had a sweet tooth. Later I also began to note how people ate, and where. My brother liked fancy food in fine surroundings, my father only cared about the company, and Mom would eat anything so long as the location was exotic. I was slowly discovering that if you watched people as they ate, you could find out who they were.

Then I began listening to the way people talked about food, looking for clues to their personalities. “What is she really saying?” I asked myself when Mom bragged about the invention of her famous corned beef ham.

“I was giving a party,” she’d begin, “and as usual I left everything for the last minute.” Here she’d look at her audience, laughing softly at herself. “I asked Ernst to do the shopping, but you know how absentminded he is! Instead of picking up a ham he brought me corned beef.” She’d look pointedly at Dad, who would look properly sheepish.

“What could I do?” Mom asked. “I had people coming in a couple of hours. I had no choice. I simply pretended it was a ham.” With that Dad would look admiringly at my mother, pick up his carving knife, and start serving the masterpiece.


4 pounds whole corned beef        1/4 cup brown sugar         

5 bay leaves                      Whole cloves                

1 onion, chopped                  1 can (1 pound 15 ounces)   

1 tablespoon prepared mustard     spiced peaches              

Cover corned beef with water in a large pot. Add bay leaves and onion. Cook over medium heat about 3 hours, until meat is very tender.

While meat is cooking, mix mustard and brown sugar.

Preheat oven to 325 [degrees].

Take meat from water and remove all visible fat. Insert cloves into meat as if it were ham. Cover the meat with the mustard mixture and bake 1 hour, basting frequently with the peach syrup.

Surround meat with spiced peaches and serve.

Serves 6.



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  • I think most people might not know how influential your father was to modern book and publication design. Some of his editions are still in print, and there are many contemporary designers who have been strongly influenced by his work.

    Here’s an article about him that resonated with me, as it deals with a specific book he designed – a book I studied in design school:

  • Anonymous says:

    Your father’s work was artful, and VERY strong but the man himself must have been even more special. Thank you for this, and for reminding me how much I loved Tender To The Bone, the year it was published! Your words have held up thru time.

  • admin says:

    Thanks so much, Joshua. I’d never seen that article. Nor, I must admit, had I ever seen those teenage diaries of Dad’s in the exhibition. (Not that I could have read them; they’re in German.)

    I’ll add one sidenote. The sample book Dad designed that’s shown in the article was for Joanna papers, which was owned by Bill Clayburgh, father of the actress Jill. Bill was another elegant and lovely man, and they were good friends. In fact, I grew up wearing a lot of Jill’s hand-me-downs.

  • Mariana Vieira says:

    Wow, i’ve read Tender to the bone twice and i really loved the you speak of your father, and the unchanging love he had for your mom. Keep writing!

  • I knew Mr. Reichl when they all lived in Shorefront Park — a great old world gentleman — Ruth and I were/are in the same hs grad class — we’ve all gone a long way 50 years — hey Ruthie: I didn’t go to the 50th reunion either — think of u often !! and yes, I have a pic of Ruth eating a hot dog in 1960

  • edna aguirre says:

    Tender at The Bone was brilliant and this excerpt shows why. Thank you! You helped me to understand life with that book.

  • Edy Klang says:

    Ruth, you & I are close in age and I remember my Dad saying, “if you should see in your lifetime what I’ve seen in mine, I have no idea what this world will be.” My Dad was older & born in 1909. He went from the horse & buggy to a man on the moon. As should be, our parents left quite an impression on us.

  • Judy Knudson says:

    Ruth, I met you recently when you spoke at Webster House in KC. I absolutely LOVED Tender at the Bone–I have all your books and am currently reading Delicious. Thanks for all these wonderful works. I subscribed to Gourmet from soon after I got married (in the 60’s) until about 10 or 12 years ago–and kept ALL the issues. I ultimately gifted them to a much younger friend who is the chef, etc. on a private yacht that travels between New England and the Bahamas/Florida. These latest installments about your Dad are just the BEST! THANK YOU! A little aside–a friend of mine who recently came into a substantial inheritance, has bought Julia Child’s home in Provence. SO excited!

  • Cathy Schneider says:

    Thanks so much for sharing your family, your life with us through your books and blog. You continue to entice me with your writing! Food, life, love, joie de vivre!
    The past two blog posts have been exceptionally wonderful!
    Happy New Year!
    Cathy, Waxhaw, NC

  • so how did they like the “ham”? the recipe doesnt sound so awful.

  • Judi Suttles says:

    Oh my, your mother could have been the twin of my mother-in-law. She was a natural cook who made excellent food.but she couldn’t throw anything away(children are starving somewhere, you know) so many of her dishes were questionable. My husband(her son) inherited this habit so every Sunday afternoon I go through the fridge and clean out little bits and pieces. It’s fine with me because he does the dishes and clean up!

  • JamieK says:

    I can sit and read your work all day long. I’ve enjoyed reading your rememberances (is that a word???) of your father; what a wonderful, loving man and husband he was to your mother.