Brain Freezers

Estelle's invitation was too subtle, "How about you and I go to this brain class on Tuesday evening?" This sounded harmless and accompanying Estelle almost anywhere is rather enjoyable. I agreed.

Gathering Estelle Tuesday afternoon, I was , as always, struck that she looked like she was on her way to afternoon tea with Anna Wintour and Simon Doonan rather than on her way to the Holistic Health and Family Center on lower Seventh Avenue, a street that housed the community mission and the fallen greasy spoon, the Chicken Shack. Her sunglasses impeded any speed of finding the Lexus in the basement's darkness. She balanced in opposite hands her beloved Blackberry and her equally loved Cole-Haan pocketbook looking like Lady Justice had been on a recent shopping excursion to Neiman Marcus.

The car was barely out of the garage before she announced, "Julia Child was a true lady." I grinned slightly and quickly mastered to where my copy of "My Life in France" had vanished. At the onset, Estelle's accolades for Julia Child surprised me for one simple reason: Estelle does not cook.

Estelle's childhood was not in a "servantless American" home. She had Essie, Lilah and Leila, who was also her grandmother, as cooks, playmates and surrogates as my grandparents traveled ad nauseam. I am sure these women were more concerned with keeping Estelle clean and in starched crinolines than teaching her about fried apple fritters, shrimp and grits, or brunswick stew. Her attempts to domesticate herself as a child were met with sweaty matriarchs pancaked in flour, wringing their hands on embroidered aprons, walking heavy footed and declaring, "now Miss Linda, you get on out of here. This ain't no place for you." She was never allowed in the kitchen, a lesson she has taken to heart and one battle to which she graciously conceded.

"She knew two licks of nothin' when she moved to France, " Estelle continued. I acted as if I had neither read the book nor seen the rather half-baked "Julie & Julia" retelling. "That woman had to learn another language and how to boil an egg, all at the same time." I knew neither of those would be an option for my mom. "She did well."

Living with Estelle for thirty-odd years, I have learned to interpret her nuances. She was admiring Julia Child because she was self made. She learned a language, mastered cooking and then influenced the Western World's view of eating. No small coup in the world of man. Julia Child surmounted obstacles and graciously presented a more delightful and joyful way of eating and living. As with any obstacle, there had to be moments of doubt, frustration and a full-blown hissy fit or two. Yet, we just saw the laughter and the passion; Julia Child kept her hissy-fits private. Estelle echoed, "Yes, Julia Child is a lady."

I inquired, "What did you think of Julie Powell's blog about Julia Child?" Quickly, my mother shot me what my family now refers to as the look. Her smile vanishes, her glasses slip down to reveal the hyper arching of her eyebrows and her entire face tilts to the slightest angle washing a frightening pale that trumps Estee Lauder. This stance signals with little words Estelle has something to say.

"I think her language is not becoming and her writing just not appropriate." Estelle in a short quip had just announced that Julie was not a lady. She wasn't finished, "She is from Texas after all."

I am surprised of my mom's interest in attending a class because of her negative school experiences. She doesn't even like Sunday School. Going to school in rural North Carolina in the 1950s and 60s, she was labeled "learning disabled" due to dyslexia and , due to ignorance, Estelle was driven from the classroom as quickly as she was from the kitchen. It is a struggle that she has kept very private and it is a struggle that has made her a wonderful advocate. I am sure this was a trait Estelle wish I had not inherited.

During a too warm May before I was to begin high school in the fall, I was called to the principal's office to discuss class selection. The discussion turned quickly into a lecture and exclusion from a desired literature class. The final pronouncement had me in tears as the gaunt face expelled, "your reading ability makes me think you're not that smart." As a thirteen year old, I knew nothing but to cry and tell Estelle. I am not sure what transpired on Estelle's visit to this principal; She would never say. Yet, I do know that I was allowed to take the class and, subsequently, she also sent that particular principal a personal announcement whenever I would graduate from, what she called, "an allegedly elite university" with another advanced degree.

Almost twenty years ago my mother found herself with her only child leaving home, a job that was both a love and frustration ending and my father struggling with health issues that would cause an early retirement. Doubt, frustrations and full-blown hissy fits were the norm. Surmounting these obstacles, she started a small cleaning business and kept her trials as private as that conversation with the school principal.

Today the business has grown to be a rather successful venture with Estelle's panache stamped over the entire undertaking in three states. Recently, I have watched her console employees during the recession, tailor services to this growing elderly community and reach out and volunteer her services for local charities. It is a joy to watch her walk onto a new construction site in wedges with a Gucci pocket book and stand shoulder to shoulder with rough necks and good-ole boys laughing and charming her way into new business. No small coup in the the world of man.

We entered the classroom and the attendant provided us with ample paper material as we took to our conference room seats. My mother lagged in seating because she greeted many of the attendees as if they were congregants at her church. It is odd to go to a place where you don't hear ,"Well Estelle it is delightful to see you."

She finally seated herself and we exchanged chatter about the next day's activities before the rather large speaker stumbled to the front of the room. "I am so excited you all want to do something good for your brain. Let's start. I am noticing that you are all seated comfortably and many of you are leaning to one side. Do something different with the way you are sitting." The brain evangelist continued, "Change sides, be more alert. Do something good for your brain."

I shifted my body to the opposite side and then glanced at Estelle. Sitting straight forward, she elegantly moved both of her legs from the left to the right. Very subtly she crossed her legs at the ankle and kept her always welcoming smile. I couldn't help the reply of my mind, "This lady already has."