I don’t know what other daughters learned from their mothers, but mine was a purveyor of homely domestic tricks, imparted not with formal lessons but by osmosis, by example at the stove, in conversation as dough was kneaded or liver chopped. First, what you should know about Julia Lipman: She was single until she was thirty-six, but answered “twenty-three” when her daughters asked how old she was when she married. She gave birth to me, the second child, six weeks before she turned forty-one. My birth certificate lists “mother’s age” as thirty-four, and it wasn’t a clerical error. She was dainty. She wore housedresses and aprons and never flats. Her bed slippers were mules and her French twist required hairpins. She used Pond’s cold cream on her face, Desert Flower lotion on her hands, and didn’t like drinking water out of mugs. She loved the Red Sox, and mild-mannered British mysteries—Ngaio Marsh a favorite—in which crimes were solved calmly.
What do You think about What My Mother Gave Me (2013)?
