Privilege and Applesauce — Aria Alpert Adjani
I was born and raised in LA into a family of successful musicians: my mom, a singer, my dad, a trumpet player. When I was young, they were superstars. Not to say they still aren’t (sorry folks!), it’s just that they aren’t as current as they once were. Growing up around their fame was my reality. It was the only life I knew. And, if you must know, that life was always uncomfortable for me. I felt, from a young age, the falsity and emptiness that ensued from most of the privileged people around me. They all seemed to share a sadness, a longing for plastic perfection and a deeper connection that money and fame couldn’t fix.
I had a fun-filled fancy childhood, don’t get me wrong. And, I am profoundly grateful for every bit this life has offered. We traveled the world first-class, rode in limos to all the music awards (are limos still a thing?), went to elite parties, dined with old school stars (and, at the time, I had no idea who they were), lived in modest homes, had private chefs, went to private schools, and was raised by a lovely little Scottish woman named Sybil (Bibbs as I called her). I must say, that woman was my reality check, my safety net, comfort, and rock growing up. She brought some good old fashioned Scottish normalcy into my world. We would sit in her bed each night watching old British comedies like Benny Hill, Monty Python, and Julia Child cooking shows. She had a wicked sense of humor, made me hot toddy’s when I was feverish, gave me spoonfuls of Drambuie (a scotch whisky infused with honey and herbs) when I had a cough, cooked me wholegrain porridge every morning, was super loving, and fiercely protected me as if I was her own.
I am forever grateful to her and, really, to my parents for entrusting her with raising me while they were busy with their careers. I would undoubtedly be a very different woman if she had not been in my life during those developmental years. She lived with us until I was 12 yrs old, and we kept in touch over the years. The last time we spoke was the day before I went into labor with my son, almost nine years ago. She wanted to fly out from North Carolina, where she was living at the time, to help me. But sadly, she passed away suddenly a few weeks later, so she never got a chance. She would have gotten a kick out of my kids for sure. I would have loved to have seen her work her Scottish nanny magic on calming down my saucy little girl. I try to channel Bibbs in my attempt sometimes; however, my Taurus girl is sometimes just too stubborn to budge. But, I digress, back to fame and fortune.
Growing up on the westside of LA, I rubbed elbows with many annoying, entitled, bitchy, materialistic girls who always whined about not getting all the fancy shit they thought they deserved. I never wanted to be associated with that bunch. That bunch made me feel even more uncomfortable and, actually, embarrassed. My high school crew of girls somehow seemed different than those other girls. Or, at least I thought. Our parents didn’t spoil us AS rotten as the others. I was no angel, of course. I went through a rebellious adolescent phase and was a sarcastic little cunt to my parents. Pure and simple. That is the truth. I am already preparing for my daughter to go through that phase, too, cause, as we all know, karma is a bitch.
As I got older, I realized that the discomfort I felt from the world around me, came from my parents’ discomfort with the glitz and the glamor. They are both artists, creative, expressive, sensitive, loving, hard working, giving and unpretentious human beings. And, they both grew up in wildly different worlds. Especially my mother. You see, my mother was not from this kind of life, far from it. She was born into a lower-middle class family in what was referred to as the Jewish Ghetto of Chicago in the 1940s. Her Russian-born immigrant father worked hard, long hours in the coal mines, and her Polish mother was a showgirl. Well, at least that was the story my gram told me. There was only one photograph she would endlessly show me of her as a showgirl as a reference. But, that photo could have very easily been taken from a costume party cause my gram was a bit of an embellisher that always leaned towards the dramatic. My grandparents were characters. To me, they looked and sounded just like Archie and Edith from the brilliant show. “All in the Family.” When I went over to their house (and it was a ton when I was young), they would make me frozen dinners and raisin bran cereal with sugar sprinkled on top for dessert, we watched Lawrence Welk, The Pink Panther, the Carol Burnett Show, and for years watched the ball drop in Times Square every new year eve on TV. My gram used to put on all her old records of the swing era, dress me up in one of her flapper dresses, and teach me how to swing. And, my gramp would make up these dramatic bedtime stories as if he was channeling Sir Richard Attenborough. Oh, how I miss them.
At any rate, my mother never really adapted to the ritz of the LA lifestyle. She never had ladies lunches at the Beverly Hills Hotel or shopped on Rodeo Drive (well, maybe that’s not true but not a lot!) or ever felt comfortable living in a fancy house or driving a fancy car. She is a city girl. And, as the saying goes, “you can take a girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl.” She will always be a tough cookie, no doubt. She knows how to handle herself in confrontations, will fiercely verbally battle anyone who crosses her or my father, still swears like a sailor (the apple doesn’t fall far…), and when I was young, she would ONLY take me shopping when there was a sale going on, and she could get a deal.
The most lavish thing she adapted to was having a private chef that would drop off food for the week. Yes, it is true; this passion I have for cooking didn’t come from my family kitchen. My people opened and warmed in the microwave. The one exception was if either one of us were sick. My mom would bust out to the market by herself and make two recipes; her homemade chicken soup from scratch and roasted applesauce. It would take her all day to do it, but, in the end, she was so proud of her accomplishment. And it was always that much more delicious cause she made it. There is something to cooking for yourself and your family that is so empowering, nourishing, and necessary. Something you can never get from eating out at restaurants or getting food delivered.
However, I am happy to report that since COVID hit, she has had to fend for herself (and my father) in the kitchen and has now become the private chef of the house. She has been a “cooking fool,” as she calls it, and it makes me so proud. Cause, when the world feels like it is crumbling around us (it kind of is), cooking becomes a therapy. A creative, delicious expression to enjoy the process. So, in honor of her, I am sharing one of my favorite (and only) recipes my mother taught me. It is super easy to make, very delicious, and the only way to make applesauce in my option. You can hold onto your chicken soup recipe though Ma, I like mine better.
ROASTED APPLESAUCE
- 6 pounds assorted apples, cored and chopped
- juice from 1/2 a lemon
- 2 TB filtered water
- 2 cinnamon sticks
- a few pinches of sea salt
Preheat oven 375°.
Wash and core the apples, discarding any seeds, then chop. You can leave the pieces on the medium side in size as they will break down when roasting. And, if you have a big ass pot, this recipe doubles beautifully.
In a large ovenproof pot with a lid, add the chopped apples, lemon juice, water, cinnamon sticks, and sea salt. Mix around and cover the pot with an oven-safe lid and bake on the oven’s middle rack for about an hour and a half.
Carefully remove the hot lid and discard the cinnamon sticks. Mix the hot apples around with a spoon or spatula to blend a bit. You can eat this chunky or, when cooled a bit, blend in a high-speed blender until smooth. The applesauce stores beautifully in an airtight container in the fridge for about a month, though I doubt it will last that long.
I eat this plain, serve alongside roasted meats, top with vanilla ice cream and granola for a dessert, and when my kids were little, I blended the shit out of it to make a fantastic baby food.
Originally published at https://ariaadjani.squarespace.com on October 27, 2021.
