From Tanzania to Twickenham
(by Rakhee Verma) The London borough of Twickenham is known for a film studio, a rugby stadium, and the homes of A-listers like Mick Jagger. The neighborhood has always been white and affluent. So, when my Indian family moved there in 1979, nobody looked like us. Working several jobs at once between them, my parents had scrimped and saved up enough to buy a small shop that sold newspapers and magazines, but everyone called it the “sweet shop” for the rows and rows of jars f
Blondie
(by Aimee Lee Ball) I was on a business trip to my hometown of Philadelphia. After my meeting at the Four Seasons Hotel in Center City (what Philadelphians call their downtown), I went to the lobby…and walked right past my unrecognizable mother. What I didn't know was that my mom had started wearing a short blond wig. After two fender-benders that made her realize it was best to turn in her car keys, plus moving to a new neighborhood, it was less convenient to get to her lo
The Wizard
(by Connie Meyer) The first sip of Tiger’s Milk is the worst. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try not to taste the vile concoction as it slips over my tongue, and my mind only faintly registers my mother’s faith that this will fortify my bones and my skinny nine-year-old frame. Inspired by her bible, Adele Davis’s Eat Right to Keep Fit, Mother whips up this breakfast staple in her new Waring blender. I wonder briefly if she gags as she swallows her own glass of orange gooey sludge.
Hillbilly French Toast
(by Christie Chapman) For the longest time, whenever I ordered French toast at a restaurant, I’d look down at the gussied-up, egg-battered bread the server placed before me and think: Where’s the Kraft American cheese? The version of that brunch mainstay, that Mother’s Day breakfast-in-bed-tray classic, that I grew up with wasn’t made with brioche, or challah, or any kind of fancy bread. My mom used regular old sandwich bread, the same kind she used for her three kids’ and hu
