My mother had moved into another large Victorian house, on Fulton Street, which she again filled with Gothic, heavily carved furniture. There was no money in my budget for restaurant food, so I and my son, Guy, were always loyal, if often unhappy, diners at Chez Jefferson. We would occasionally encounter an unidentifiable piece of meat hidden among the pasta. Spaghetti at her table, which was offered at least three times a week, was a mysterious red, white, and brown concoction. Her ways were so tender and her personality so sweet that no one was mean enough to discourage her disastrous culinary exploits. She was a ready babysitter and insisted on providing dinner for her tenants.
I had a five-year-old son, two jobs, and two rented rooms, with cooking privileges down the hall.
An Excerpt:īy the time I was twenty-two, I was living in San Francisco. In her new memoir Mom & Me & Mom, Maya Angelou explains how she reconnected with the mother who abandoned her during her childhood, but who came to be a strong, vital force in her adult life.
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