Free Cooking for Picasso by Camille Aubray Page A

Grandma in the kitchen of her café,” Mom said, passing me a snapshot. It was a cozy moment and I noticed that Mom had used the American word
Grandma
this time. “Isn’t her hair wonderful? It never went completely grey—it stayed mostly dark, right to the end of her life.”
    She put the picture in front of me and I peered closely at the first image I’d ever seen of Grandmother Ondine—a woman wearing a rose-colored dress, whose hair
was
very different from Mom’s and mine, darker and luxuriously curly. I was immediately captivated by her vital-looking face and bright, lively eyes. She seemed like a strong, no-nonsense character.
    “Grandma looks
formidable,
” I said, surprised. Mom was so shy that I never imagined I had a female ancestor who ran her own business in a century when women were still struggling mightily for equal rights. Grandmother Ondine was standing in an old-fashioned kitchen; behind her was a Provençal country cupboard painted bright blue, with a tall pink-and-blue striped pitcher on it.
    “Hey!” I said. “Isn’t that the same pitcher you’ve got in
your
kitchen?” I glanced up at the shelf where it was sitting right now, always in pride of place for as long as I could remember.
    “Hmm? Yes,” Mom answered, still scanning the letter. “Your grandmother was sixty-four years old when she wrote this! She says business is good and she’s got a nice young lawyer, Monsieur Clément, who’s helping her put her affairs in order. But I got worried when I read this part about Grandma needing to see a doctor for ‘some heart trouble’, and having to use a cane to walk. That’s when I decided I
had
to go see her in France, even though I was pregnant with you. Deirdre and Danny didn’t come with us because they wanted to be with their friends that summer.”
    Very soberly, she replaced the note in its envelope and tucked it in the leather pocket. “I’ve kept it all these years because it’s the only letter she ever sent me. Before then, we were a bit—estranged—ever since I left France to get married. She had wanted me to—wait.”
    “You and Dad eloped, right?” I said. Mom nodded guiltily. She’d always made it sound so romantic, as if Dad had swept her off her feet. Now I saw there was more to it; perhaps a serious rift with her mother. Gently I asked, “How come you never told us about Grandma Ondine and Picasso?”
    Mom flushed and admitted, “She made me promise never to say his name to—” She stopped.
    “Dad,” I guessed. She nodded. I knew he resented Mom’s few stories about her life before she met him; so whenever Mom ventured to tell one she did so hurriedly, in the manner of someone who’s been chided that she’s not very good at it, which evoked the very irritation in her audience that she dreaded. I am ashamed to think that we all got used to only half-listening to her.
    Now she actually lowered her voice, even though we were the only two people in the house.
    “There’s something else I find myself thinking about a lot lately. That last day—when Grandma Ondine and I were sitting together, having a nice chat just before dinner, like you and I are doing right now—she said she had to tell me something she didn’t want anyone else to hear.” By now I was holding my breath, waiting. Mom said wonderingly, “Grandma told me that Picasso once gave her a picture.”
    “Picture?” I said, awed. “Like, a painting? Or drawing?”
    “A painting, I believe. She said he gave it to her as a gift for all her good cooking. I think she wanted to tell me more—but she never finished her story because right then and there I went into labor! They had to rush me to the hospital, and, well, we never had dinner that day! You certainly surprised us all, arriving a whole month sooner than you were due,” Mom went on breathlessly, lapsing into the only part of the story I knew, because it explained why I’d been born in France. So I knew what was coming.
    “That’s