Love, Loss, and What We Ate: A Memoir (34 page)

I gingerly answered the letter and thanked him for the olive branch and apologies. But it would take time, I wrote. The following February, in 2014, his mother passed away after a long battle with cancer. I knew Adam was grieving. For some time, Adam had been asking if I would join him and Krishna for dinner at his house. It seemed like a yes from me could be my first olive branch, and that perhaps the three of us being together, even if it was awkward and tentative, might do some small part to ease his grief. I could hardly say no. Krishna was ecstatic to have both her parents in the same room.

After the success of that first dinner, Adam invited me the following month to an Ides of March dinner. He and Krishna were going to make homemade pizzas and dress as Romans in togas. Again, I said yes, remembering how much joy it would bring Krishna. I dressed up in my old Princess Bithia costume from the
Ten Commandments
miniseries I had filmed years before. Adam insisted we had to immortalize the night—
our costumes were just too good not to get a photo of. I sat stiffly, and nervously on the couch, Krishna between us, while his housekeeper took a photo. We all looked quite splendid in our ridiculous family portrait. The Ides of March dinner marked a turning point for Adam and me. It wasn’t a 180-degree about-face, more like a gentle bend in the road, but from that point forward, Adam, Krishna, and I had a monthly get-together. We agreed Krishna needed to see her parents get along. We both felt it was important for her to feel we were sharing notes, informing each other of her life, communicating. She was four by then, sharp and keenly observant.

Over the course of that year, we lurched forward bit by bit, month by month. My chill, though not my caution, toward Adam began to thaw. As Christmas approached, Krishna decided she desperately wanted our monthly outing to be ice-skating at Rockefeller Center, followed by seeing the larger-than-life tree (this from a kid with one Hindu and one Jewish parent). Until then, all of our monthly get-togethers had happened in private, so going to Rockefeller Center at the height of the holiday season made me queasy at best.

I had grown up in New York, too, just like Krishna, however different our lives may otherwise have been, and I remembered acutely how special an occasion it was to go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. My mother could rarely afford it—the skate rentals were so costly. It was a memory I wanted to make with Krishna, as I had made it with my own mother. I couldn’t resist and agreed to go.

That chilly Saturday, Krishna and I arrived at Rockefeller Center close to six. We had just gotten out of a matinee of the movie
Annie,
emerging into a dark winter night. Christmas was just around the corner, and Rockefeller Center was bursting with holiday shoppers, out-of-town tourists, and Salvation Army Santas ringing the bells. Glittering wreaths and tinsel garlands adorned the shop fronts, and the display windows were
done up to the nines, functioning as elaborate holiday dioramas: toy trains circling miniature tracks that traversed snow-sparkling miniature villages of dazzlingly complex detail. It was hard to find space to maneuver on the sidewalk. I had recently acquired a highly impractical, extremely puffy red goat-hair coat that made the upper half of my body look like a giant cranberry snowball. So it was hard to even carry Krishna in my arms. She was also almost five and getting heavier every day. My baby wasn’t really a baby anymore. The air was bitingly cold, so much so that you needed a hat and gloves to be comfortable outside for any length of time. It pricked our faces, though we ignored this by keeping ourselves moving.

The minute I caught sight of the glass elevator at the entrance to Rockefeller Center, I instantly smelled the undeniable aroma of roasting chestnuts, blackened on iron skillets by the seasonal street vendors. The scent had always heralded the holidays for me and my mother. Though ice-skating trips were expensive, and though my mother herself could not ice-skate (she often stood at the edge of the rink and watched me skate alone), part of what we loved about making the excursion were those delicious roasted chestnuts. We loved the earthy smell of them, the acrid whiff of char combined with the sweetness of the nut meat. We relished holding the hot little stones in our hands, then stuffing our pockets with the crinkly paper bags of nuts, which functioned as impromptu hand warmers, pulling out one chestnut at a time and peeling it gingerly, the released steam stinging our naked fingers. We loved the charred, chewy outer parts, and the steaming, soft, almost buttery centers, too. Our Rockefeller Center outings were, actually, almost entirely an excuse to indulge in this wintertime delicacy. Standing there thirty-five years later, the scent instantly transported me to being nine years old again. I wished I could somehow harness the aroma and mail an envelope of it to my mother in California, who was right then probably trimming the roses in her sun-filled front yard.

I looked up at the night sky. High above all the national flags flapping vigorously in the winter wind, as well as the larger-than-life toy soldiers, the great Christmas tree towered above everything, twinkly and imposing. I pointed it out to Krishna, who was far more enchanted with the statue of Prometheus at its base. Below the golden Titan lay the ice rink, shimmering and impossibly white, crowded by holiday revelers crisscrossing it in loops and twirls. We waited there for Adam to meet us and take us to the VIP entrance, which until recently I never even knew existed. Adam had generously paid extra so we would not have to wait in line. He knew about my aversion to crowds, and I appreciated this added luxury.

Adam emerged from the sea of people on the plaza. He was tall and easy to see. He grabbed Krishna and swiftly put her up on his shoulders above the crowd. Her face lit up as bright as the big tree. We waited in line for the elevator, and he put her down as we went in. Once downstairs in the shopping arcade, we went into the small VIP area to get our skates, joining a couple of other families there. Beyond the doors, I saw a steady stream of skaters, all in a bunch, going around and around the rink like a school of fish. How were we going to wade into that? Adam helped Krishna with her tiny little rental skates, and I somehow managed to bend over and get mine on in spite of the puffball coat. A man helping his own daughter and son with their skates smiled at Adam and Krishna and said, “What a lovely child.” “Thank you!” Adam and I both responded in unison. We looked at each other and I smiled sheepishly, but also couldn’t help but feel territorial. It was a rare and strange occurrence for us to experience the feeling of joint pride.

“You ready, Mommy?” Krishna asked. I nodded silently as Adam led her to the entrance of the rink. He patiently helped her walk on her skates. She looked so small next to him. Beyond their silhouettes, I could see the people, the steady stream of skaters. I hurried and went out ahead, onto the ice first, and held on to the rink wall. I needed some air. The spectators
looking down from above made me feel like I was in a Roman amphitheater. A knot of teenagers whizzed by, followed by a young couple holding hands, going slowly and trying to steady themselves. An elderly woman and a young man who looked like her grandson glided by arm in arm. They looked like they had been skating all their lives. I thought then about my future seventy-year-old self, bringing Krishna’s son or daughter to this very place my mother had first brought me. There were families of all sorts of sizes and colors. In the middle of the rink twirled skaters who looked almost semiprofessional, dressed in lighter skating costumes, elegant cloth covers over their own skates. They pirouetted and glided with swan-like elegance, and the other, average skaters falling and tripping behind them in the far curve of the rink made for a comical backdrop.

The spirit of the crowd took me out of my own anxiety. Everyone was so happy. Everyone was smiling. But no two smiles were bigger than Krishna’s and her dad’s. You could see her two little dimples piercing deep into her chin just under her upturned rosy lips, pressed tightly together. Her cheeks looked like they would burst. “You ready, Mommy?” Adam repeated. I took a deep breath. We started out very slowly on the ice, Krishna in the middle, holding each of our hands. Since none of us were that steady, we stayed on the outer perimeter, going very slowly. We were new at this. At all of it. It felt dangerous, like the ice was thin and might break open at any moment to swallow us whole. But the ground did not open up. Ahead of us, I saw a couple of kids tumble and fall, but get up instantly before we reached them. They skated onward like nothing had happened.

I glanced down at Krishna, who was having some trouble staying upright on her skates. But she hung in there, joyful and excited. We went around a few times and got the hang of it, more or less. The three of us managed to stay vertical, as well as dodge those who fell in our path. Little by little, we gained our confidence. We picked up speed, too. This was the
challenge we had been working up to all these many months. It felt exhilarating to be gliding on that ice, the three of us together holding hands. I even felt brave enough to let go of Krishna’s hand and skate backward briefly, facing Adam and our daughter. Years of skating in the city came back to my legs. The rink was too busy to do it for long, but I was glad I had taken the risk. I asked them if they wanted to stop and take a break. Adam looked at me and smiled. “
No.
Are you
kidding
?” he said. “I want hot chocolate! I want cookies!” Krishna pleaded. We skated around a bit more and then went back into the rental area for a break. As we sat back in the warmth and had our snacks, I thought about where I would be in my life the next time I came to this rink. Being here had always been a special occasion, a treat to be savored, remembered. On no occasion was this more so than that evening.

The baby was getting older. We had done a pretty good job of maintaining a civil, polite rapport between us in front of her, even through the worst of it. We had been successfully following through on our monthly get-togethers, so Krishna could experience the feeling of having her family together. But it was Adam who had been the driving force behind the idea. The dinners and outings were arranged and coaxed into existence by Adam and Adam alone. I could see he was trying very hard to create a new history for us as friends.

I left Adam and Krishna inside and went to skate by myself, so I could try going faster. After a few rounds, I got my speed up pretty good. I saw Adam and Krishna enter the rink. I sped up enough to go around once and pass them. They tried to catch up, and then, like a pile of dominos, we all fell on top of one another. Krishna and I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to get up, and we struggled to stand, our bodies tangled on the ice. Adam got up and extended his hand to help me. Krishna was scrambling around my feet. She looked up toward me. “Mom, take his hand. Let Dad help you.”

Family was important to both Adam and me, and I wanted to somehow instill that in Krishna, too. But I could not underline the importance of family unless I accepted the whole of hers. So rather than be mired in the ugliness of our past, I came to be propelled forward by our shared love for her. In a sense, it was the same love and forgiveness Teddy had shown me, unconditional in the wake of everything that had happened, boundless in its generosity. It was easy to follow his example for Krishna’s sake. I am sure Krishna’s father had some forgiving to do as well in my regard. If he had trouble with this, he did not show it, or speak of needing anything from me to do it.

“Yeah, Mommy; let me help you.”

We went back out into the night, the three of us together, skating hand in hand.

F
irst of all, my deep gratitude
goes to Daniel Halpern, Libby Edelson, and Luke Janklow, without whom I could never have written this book. And to my assistant Tucker Gurley, without whom I would never have gotten through the last several years. Undying thanks also to all my family, especially the women in my clan and most of all to my mother, Vijaya Lakshmi, because my story is also her story, and she has had the courage and grace to let me tell it as I see fit. My thanks also to Krishna’s father, Adam Dell. And to Salman for planting the seed so many years ago over tandoori on Lexington Avenue, for being a cheerleader and handing me Rousseau. Thank you to Susan Roxborough for being the kind of friend and in-house editor every writer should have. Thank you to my many recipe testers like Jolie Hunt, Judith Sutton, and my writing assistant Caroline Perkins, as well as to those who read early versions or heard pieces of the book over late nights and many telephone calls, including Sharon Sperling, Kristin Powers, Bonnie Takhar, Jason Comis, Dr. Sylvia Karasu, and so many more. Thank you to JJ Goode for understanding that I had to write this book on my own, a different book than when I started. And much gratitude goes to the late great Nora Ephron for her generous mentorship in the last year of her life, without which this book would not have its title. Thank you finally to my late grandfather, K. C. Krishnamurti, and my beloved grandmother, CVS Rajilakshmi, for instilling in me the love of books and cooking, two things I could not live without.

PADMA LAKSHMI
is the Emmy-nominated host of the highly rated and critically acclaimed, Emmy-winning Bravo series
Top Chef
, and the author of two cookbooks:
Tangy, Tart, Hot & Sweet
and the award-winning
Easy Exotic
. In addition to her culinary achievements, Lakshmi has contributed to such magazines as
Vogue, Gourmet,
and
Harper’s Bazaar
(UK and US), and penned a syndicated column on fashion and food for the
New York Times
. Her television-hosting credits include
Planet Food
and
Padma’s Passport
, as well as other programs in the United States and abroad. A global style icon and the first internationally successful Indian supermodel, Lakshmi also helms companies of her own such as the Padma Collection and Easy Exotic.

L
akshmi is a cofounder of the Endometriosis Foundation of America. Since 2009, the organization has advocated for early diagnosis, promoted research, and raised awareness in the medical community and the greater public about this devastating chronic disease which affects over 190 million women worldwide.

S
he lives in New York City with her daughter.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.