Accidents will occur
Even in the best-organized kitchen
The mother of eight

When I was in my early twenties, my ideal was Jan Meyer. She was one of those women who permitted nothing unexpected to break into her set routine.

Her home was immaculate. No dust on the windowsills, no clutter on the couch. Her kitchen was a House Beautiful portrait: food removed from the table, sink scoured, floor shining. She was prompt for appointments, dressed like a fashion model and was tidy about relationships. No loose ends for her. She refused to allow anything, including her hemline to dangle.

I admired her for the effortless way she organized her life. She cut off phone calls that interrupted her, closed her door to salesmen and trudged with determination through her tasks, keeping a relaxed yet steady pace.

Her talent amazed me.

Her husband Don was devoted to his efficient, capable wife and why not? She anticipated his every need from an ironed shirt to a balanced meal with shining devotion. She reminded him of his appointments, the chores he should do for her, his clients and his mother. The two of them were reliable as a time clock and everyone knew who it was that set the pace.

Indeed, if I were to choose which element I could count on most: the sun rising or Jan’s reaction to anything at all, I would have opted for Jan.

The universe might get tossed about by wind, rain or eclipse, but nothing could disturb Jan Meyer. She had a single mind and it was strong.

THEN she had Elizabeth.

Jan decided to breast feed her. “You never know what’s in those formulas you get,” she said “But I DO know my milk will be good for her.”

Her mother-in-law (who never forgot how attentive her son had become after he married Jan) offered to pay for a baby nurse, but Jan refused. “I know I can manage,” she said. “I reorganized my kitchen and the baby’s room with excellent traffic patterns to get the essentials done and still have time to get to know my little girl.”

“Our little girl,” said Don.

This was back in the fifties when we didn’t have a lot of baby products or modern kitchen appliances to help us combine childcare with housework. No dishwashers, no cuisinarts, no disposable diapers, no ready-made formulas.

Television didn’t feature the kiddy games and musical diversions it does today. When you had a child, YOU were the one who amused it until it could amuse itself. You rocked it, you cooed to it, you kept it clean and dry, you fed it, you sang to it, you wheeled it for its walks and to the doctor and you were up all night comforting it when it cried. You carried it with you to the store, to the beauty shop (we did that in those days) to visit your friends, go shopping for clothes and sit in on your canasta games.

It was just about the time that Jan’s little girl was born that pacifiers became the rage. And Jan’s Elizabeth was almost never without one in her mouth. “She can’t seem to suck enough,” said Jan.

“She’ll probably be very popular when she grows up,” I said as I watched with fascination as the little girl’s cheeks went in and out like a bellows.

“I’m told that’s a very good muscular action to use on dates.”

“They make them in adorable designs now,” said Jan. “I try to give her a variety so she won’t be bored. She is very alert, don’t you think?”

I looked at Elizabeth sucking the little pink nipple with blue and white ruffles and a happy clown face. Her eyes were closed and her tiny lips were clamped tight on the pacifier. “Why does she need that?” I asked.

“Why can’t you just let her play with her blocks or her teddy bear?”

Jan’s face hardened. “Because she screams. You would not believe how loud a child can scream. This kid has the lungs of a circus master and it drives me crazy.” Elizabeth spit out her little pink clown and her face screwed into an angry knot “I think she understood what you said,” I observed.

Jan stopped chopping vegetables and opened a kitchen drawer. She pulled out a yellow pacifier that looked like a sunflower with a nipple attached.

“Does Mommy’s little woopsie doodle want a flower to make her happy?” she cooed and wedged the daisy in Elizabeth’s mouth. Once again the cheeks went in and out, the eyes closed and silence reigned in the Meyer kitchen.

My husband had just left me and Jan had invited me over for dinner to keep me from noticing my empty life. I sat at her kitchen counter while she discussed Elizabeth’s sucking habits and prepared dinner for Don, her friend Norman Thal and me. “I am starting us out with cabbage borscht,” she said.

“I'm having brisket and roast potatoes for the main course. I thought fruit would be good for dessert.”

“ The only thing that worries me is that cabbage,” I said. “I don’t know how your system does with it, but it gives me instant flatulence. I’ll probably have to stand in the yard while the rest of you have after dinner conversation.”

“Its too late to change the menu,” said Jan. “It has sugar in it. Maybe that will help.”

As she worked, she chopped her vegetables, tidied the counter, mopped up the stove, swept the floor, checked for spatters on the window and browned the cabbage and apples in a large pot. The vegetables sizzled and Elizabeth spit out her daisy and screamed. “She needs to be changed,” said Jan and handed me her spoon. “Stir this stuff and I’ll be right back.”

She lay the baby on the bassinet, changed her diaper, dumped it in the diaper can washed her hands, popped Elisabeth in her play pen and jammed a bright red sports car pacifier into her daughter’s mouth. She smiled. “Don ’t those veggies smell good!” she said. “I think its time to add the sugar and vinegar. Can you set the table while I cut up the fruit”

I left Jan in the kitchen wiping the counters again, sweeping the floor, washing up the baby’s dish, checking the roast, stirring the cabbage and getting the coffee ready. She glanced in the mirror. “I’ll just run upstairs and freshen up,” she said. “Don will be here any minute and I can’t have him see me this way.”

She galloped up the stairs and in five minutes she appeared transformed.

She wore a navy and white shift with a matching bow in her curled hair and small white heels. She tied a ruffled tea apron around her waist.

Elizabeth shrieked. “I FORGOT TO FEED MY BABY!” Jan cried.

She opened her bodice and sat down with her daughter. “Mommy is soo sorry she forgot her cuppy wuppy cake. Ooo is mommy’s wittle precious isn’t ooo?” and she scowled. “That ungrateful kid bit me and she doesn’t even have teeth!”

“You certainly handle multiple roles well,” I said. “You cooked a complete dinner took care of your baby, groomed yourself and cleaned the house all in the space of two hours and dinner will be served right on time. I am impressed.”

Jan kissed the baby’s head and stood up. “ I need to pretty her up to meet her daddy. Would you mind checking to be sure the there is still liquid in the borscht?”

I took the cover off the soup pot and there floating in the cabbage, onions and apples was a bright rubber daisy. Puzzled, I removed it and realized that somehow in the rush of her cleaning, cooking and mothering, Jan had dropped the baby’s pacifier into the borscht. I removed the daisy and as I did so, I discovered a small yellow clown rising to the top.

At that moment, Jan returned to the kitchen with Elizabeth polished to a high gloss, her hair brushed into a little spit curl at the top of her head, in a pink jumpsuit with white ruffles and a white bunny clamped in her mouth. “Isn’t her precious?” Jan said to her daughter and then she turned to me. “I hope you‘ll just taste the soup,” she said. “It might not be as bad as you think,”

“Of course, Ill taste it,” I said. “In fact I already did and I could tell that it will be fine.”

Jan paused. “Do you think the sugar made it less bubbly?” she asked.

I smiled. “Well something did. The minute I lifted the cover, I realized that this cabbage had been pacified. It will neutralize my stomach and I will be fine.”

Jan paused. “How can you be so sure?”

“There’s the doorbell,” I said “Do you want me to get it while you put the rolls in the oven? And where do you keep Elizabeth’s extra pacifiers? I found two on the floor just now.“ “In that purple mug,” she said and then she laughed. “You found them ON THE FLOOR?”

“ Oh look Elizabeth,” I said.” Your daddy’s home!” and I popped the daisy and the clown, still smelling like apples and onions into their purple mug.


Cooking is as unpleasant
And filthy as coal mining
And the pay’s lot worse
P.J. O’Rourke’s mother