Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins (19 page)

“Here were food, friends, and family thrown into the same pot together. It was the quietest I'd ever seen her. So the food became a buffer as well: food was used to grease the social wheel.”

It was also a strategic move on Molly's part. Schoffman, an author, a screen-writer, and an authority on Israeli history and politics who formerly wrote for
Fortune
magazine, fit right in. Molly knew Michael had written extensively about the Manhattan Project and the bombing of Nagasaki. Her father was a World War II veteran. Big Jim, Schoffman, and Stoff found common ground, and in a delicious touch of irony, war became neutral territory.

“As it turned out, when Molly's father learned Stuart and I were historians, we spent most of the evening eating and talking about the atomic bomb! And there she was, quiet as a church mouse. I laugh every time I think about that evening—dinner, a leg of lamb, and the atomic bomb. After her father left, she turned to us and quietly said, ‘Thank you.'”

No one could have known then that in 1998 Big Jim would be diagnosed with cancer and would commit suicide after deciding he could no longer face life as a terminally ill cancer patient.

In 2010 a play based on Molly opened in Philadelphia with her character writing a column about her father. The play,
Red Hot Patriot: The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins
, starred Kathleen Turner, who channeled Molly to a T. It revolved in large measure around a true story.

Molly had started writing what was to be a personal reminiscence when she received word of his death. The column became his eulogy. On the one hand she acknowledged his frightening outbursts of temper, but on the other she attributed her inner strength to having learned to stand up to him.

Molly's generosity of spirit was as impressive as her quietly philanthropic bent. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I must here acknowledge being a recipient of Ivins largesse. Once, after I had been whining about how office politics at the
Dallas Morning News
had pretty much derailed a plan to have the paper send me to cover a tribute to black American jazz musicians in France, Molly, without saying a word, arose from the green leather settee in her spacious living room, cut through the kitchen to her office, and made a call—which was strange because it wasn't like her to up and, unannounced, leave me in mid-sentence to go call somebody. She didn't even like to talk on the telephone.

A part of me was annoyed that she was so bored with my complaint that she simply walked off. I figured maybe I had been whining a little too long and opted to pout in the privacy of the guest room. Before I could schlump off, she returned with a scrap of paper. On it were the name, address, and telephone number of former Smith classmate Susan Concordet. It seemed that Molly had called Susan at home in Paris (France, not the one in Texas) to see if she could recommend someplace affordable for me to stay. Of course, Susan replied. She and her husband owned a pied-à-terre in their Montmartre apartment building. I could stay there. No problem.

Molly even offered to share her frequent-flyer miles to get me there. As it turned out it wasn't necessary, but it was typical of what she did for others. At the last minute she sent me a check for $500 “just in case.”

Molly was making money and she didn't mind spending it on the ACLU; on nonprofits that helped the poor, the homeless, and battered women; or on friends, especially when it came to dining out. At times it left Jan Demetri, Molly's accountant, apoplectic. Her soft spot for Molly is reflected in her zealous guardianship of a collection of folders she found after Molly's house had pretty much been emptied. Stacked atop a pile of papers to be tossed were folders with recipes and menu plans clipped and torn from magazines and newspapers. “At first I didn't think anything of it until I saw that each folder had been assigned different foods,” she said. “When I opened them there were all these recipes with notes scribbled in Molly's unmistakable chicken scratch.”

Sure enough, one legal-sized manila folder is brimming with recipes dating to 1966. They are classified course by course—soups, appetizers, entrées, salads, meats, stews, even a separate one for paella. Each is a little culinary treasure trove. The notation for an Italian recipe for spaghetti
alla pescatora
is deemed “not so good, at least with canned tomatoes.” The one for linguini
al pesto
is adjusted to Molly's specifications, substituting a half cup of Parmesan for the one tablespoon called for. Mushrooms, truffle-style—
funghi trifolati
—is pronounced “yummy!” but carries an admonition: “Don't go too heavy on the anchovies.”

After reading them I wanted to go home, whip out pots and pans, and cook for days, especially after rummaging through the folder marked “Molly's Very Good Recipes.” That one included Jacques Pépin's poached red snapper; a 1999 recipe from
Fine Cooking
magazine for a savory carrot-and-ginger soufflé, and another of undetermined origin for something called “Grandma's Chicken.”
Successive ripped pages from an old
New York Times
feature focused on a Thanksgiving menu for eight that included, in addition to the traditional bird, a celery root bisque with thyme; mashed potatoes with mascarpone and caramelized leeks; maple-glazed sweet potatoes; scalloped squash; a red-pepper corn gratin with Cheddar crust; cornbread stuffing with ham, chestnuts, and sage; and green beans with wild mushrooms.

You just know that at some point she prepared the entire menu—maybe for one of those Orphans and Strays meals or at her brother's home. Grease spots and smudges suggest serious use. I also now have a copy and see a red-pepper corn gratin and mashed potatoes with mascarpone and caramelized leeks in some unsuspecting dinner guest's future.

17

WHETHER IT
'
S THE FIRST-TIME VISIT
to the Big Apple, ordering from a menu in French, or visiting the nation's capital under the guise of a sightseeing excursion, all of Molly's honest-to-goodness nieces and nephews have experienced a memorable meal with Molly.

Darby, the only daughter of Molly's brother, Andy, and his wife, Carla, now lives and cooks in San Antonio, where she cheerfully acknowledges her indebtedness to Molly on several levels. Here you learn the origin of Molly's nickname, “Mole”—a moniker that evolved from her propensity for adjourning to her room to read for hours on end.

Like Molly's “adopted” nieces, Darby remembers Molly through her generosity and her love of cooking, especially Thanksgiving meals cooked at the family home in Boerne. These days Darby does her own cooking, with beer-inthe-butt chicken holding a special place in her store of Aunt Molly memories.

“I just thought that was the funniest thing,” she said with a laugh. “See, you rub the chicken all over with whatever seasonings you have, then you cook it over a can of beer. Well, no, first you have to . . .” For whatever reason, she can't quite bring herself to provide a graphic description of the methodology—which involves balancing the butt-end body cavity of a whole chicken, legs down, atop a can of beer, then maintaining the balance and roasting it on a grill or in the oven. It makes for a delicious, moist bird, and it was another Molly favorite.

Darby more easily describes the 2004 trip to Washington, DC, with her doting aunt. The unsuspecting eighteen-year-old had no idea it was the launch of a sensitization process that never stopped. Darby thought she was going to
see sights and tour the nation's capital—which they did, in a way. They were really in DC to participate in a major abortion rights rally. Women had come from all over, and police estimated “almost” one million marchers.

Molly went to great lengths to explain to Darby why they were there and how, when the power of one becomes strength in numbers, one person matters.

“Like I knew what the hell I was doing at the time,” Darby said. “I'd lived such a privileged life; I'd never had a political opinion of my own about anything, but I got the gist of it. Although I didn't fully appreciate it then, I realized later she was politicizing me. Here were these thousands of people in the street marching to make a point.

“After the march we ate at this beautiful Italian restaurant with dishes on the menu I'd never heard of. I remember that one of the people at the table was Molly's friend Myra MacPherson [whose son, Michael, and daughter, Leah, were among Molly's stable of “nieces” and “nephews”]. I loved listening to them talk about issues. I know it made an impression.”

And that, of course, was the point. Joining Darby and Myra were eight other diners, including Myra's husband, Florida state senator Jack Gordon; Betsy Moon, Molly's aide-de-camp; and friends from California and New York. All held forth at Teatro Goldoni, one of those swank K Street see-and-be-seen eateries and a perfect eye-opener for a sheltered kid from Texas. Myra, an accomplished author and former
Washington Post
political reporter, met Molly in 1972. Myra was working on her first book,
The Power Lovers
, a look at politics and marriage. She had met and interviewed Bob and Nadine Eckhardt when Bob was representing the Eighth Congressional District of Texas, which included part of Houston. They invited Myra to their home and invited friends for cocktails, where Myra held forth as only she could. She has a treasure trove of stories from her years at the
Washington Post
.

“I had earlier been in the Houston Astrodome taking in a curious scene: Maharaj Ji, the teenage religious nut craze of the moment, was holding court, and there was radical antiwar relic Rennie Davis kneeling and crawling forward to touch this guy's feet,” she said. “In the middle of recounting my Maharajah experience, a man with a tall blonde woman turned to me and launched into this really weird spiel.

“‘You know what's wrong with the Veet Cong? Just ain't very Christian,' he says. ‘Here they are fightin' in their bare feet and black pajamas and our boys are up there in their B-52's napalming the hell outta them with their Bibles by their side, Christian like.'”

Myra, figuring she'd encountered one of Texas's notorious right-wing nuts, suddenly saw the tall blonde smile and realized she'd been punk'd by the one and only John Henry Faulk. The tall blonde with him was Molly.

“The two of us became Thelma and Louise for the rest of my trip, with John Henry in tow and without the bad ending. We went driving all over Texas and ended up being fast friends.”

Darby was treated to this and other Molly-based stories that evening, moving her to observe, “I think Mole attracted people to her because she was so willing to go the extra mile. It made me want to cook for her. I knew she had as much passion for cooking as she did for writing, so one day I got courageous and cooked sautéed scallops in a tomato sauce for her. I put some spices in that I probably could have done without, since I didn't exactly know what I was doing, and I don't think she liked it, but she ate it because she didn't want to hurt my feelings. That's what it boils down to—no pun intended—cooking food for people you love.”