Sometimes at night when I cannot sleep, I hear again the long, grinding whine of Mama's first Model T… a car that is history and tarnished brass now, but a car that was part of my puppy-hood… and I remember every bolt and rattle, every grimace that Mama made when it did not act the way the auto agent said it would.
I forget about this part of my life, and then suddenly one sleepless night something brings it back… some incident of the day, like this…
It is almost thirty years later on a California beach… I had an Indian with me named James Peachpit—although later he admitted the name was his own idea; it was really Floundering Cow. Jimmie was a good Indian and a fine cook, and one morning when I was sitting on the sands, he came up with a basket of mussels and asked in his best grammar school voice if I liked soup.
“Yes… but not from seaweeds.”
“Mussel… very fine mussel, I catch them.”
“You don't catch mussels… they can't run.”
“I pick them then… gimme cigarette.”
I gave him cigarette, and he explained that his family (better-class Americans who looked down on Mayflower folk) had always made a good mussel soup.
I gave in and said we would have it for dinner. There was a singer coming down from Hollywood who sang Cole Porter off key, and she had a friend… a man who backed Russian actors in cheesecloth and called them danseurs in a Bronx accent. I didn't care if the mussel broth was a little deadly. I told Jimmie Peachpit to do his best, and I explained in pure Indian talk c'est une affaire extremement grave… if they were pleased with the meal I would have to design the stage sets for them.
I regret to say that Mussel Soup Early American was a delight. It was so good, and the guests got so excited over it, that they forgot to ask for the stage sets.
Here is how James Peachpit, Indian, makes his soup. He picks his mussels at low tide. If you haven't got a California beach near at hand, get a quart of freshly shelle mussels. Clean them. Pour into a clay pot a pint of white wine… we had a California Riesling… a very goo white native wine… dry and very palatable. Steam the mussels and the wine together until the meats are tender. Then strain everything, and add to the stock a fistful of sweet butter rubbed well with chopped parsley, two ounces of red and green peppers, a dash of chili powder, and a pint of cream. Just as the soup stock begins to boil, add the mussels you have left in the strainer, and serve.
With this, Jimmie served Indian tamales, made of sweet green corn grated from the cob and rubbed with red an green peppers, diced onions, salt and brown sugar, with the whole thing shaped with the hands to fit the green corn leaves, and then buried in the embers of a wood fire in the back yard.
The next day, of course, James Peachpit asked for more money. After all, he said, I had hired him to drive a car. I drove after that. He cooked native dishes… like giant crawfish steaks in butter…
Anyway, that night I dreamed… I dreamed of Mama's Model T. It kept parking itself in my dream with those wide, fender-crushing charges that Mama was a master of, the steam coming as usual from the brass front that Mama had forgotten to fill with water. I remember how it all began. Mama came down to breakfast one day and stabbed Papa with a look.
“Mr. L, I want to buy a car… a Model T.”
“Why?” Papa had courage… of a kind”.
“Fran is with us, and I want her to meet young men… sporting young men.”
“Sara, I must remind you that sporting young men are not what you think. In the slang of our period, a sporting young man is not a sportsman.”
“He's an elbow bender,” I said.
“Go out and bite a dog, Stevie,” said Mama… “Fran needs to meet young men.”
Papa said, “It's no use. She's your sister, and if you want to kill her in a Model T… very well.”
Fran was as beautiful as Mama, who was the peach of the town, to hear Mr. Floy tell it. Mr. Floy was Mama's idea of what was good enough for Fran… Mr. Floy kept two hunting dogs, and spit into the sawdust of the best bars, and had yellow gloves and a lumber yard. An now that Aunt Fran was staying with us Mama had made up her mind that Mr. Floy was going to marry her. That was why she wanted a Model T.
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