Save this story Save Story Save this story Forget 9-to-5. Mothering knows no schedule—often it feels more like 5-to-9 and everything in between. In this series , we look at the hectic, messy, sometimes beautiful, often frustrating enterprise of being a mother—and maintaining a life of your own. Consider it a “day in the life” for the forgotten hours.
Today, we’re following Tarajia Morrell , the James Beard Award–winning food writer, author, and communications consultant. Her new memoir, Desire Feeds the Feast , is out now. The book is a rich and lyrical telling of her childhood as the daughter of a dynasty of Manhattan wine sellers; her days on the New York City club scene of the late ’90s; her culinary studies, acting auditions, and restaurant jobs; and more.
A single mother, Morrell lives in her childhood home— a rent-stabilized Manhattan apartment that she fought for and won —with her five-year-old daughter, Viva. On a recent Thursday, she brought Vogue along for a busy day, which included everything from the school bus stop and a book breakfast to a podcast taping, a party, and the realities of mealtime. (“Indeed, I am a food writer whose child is a picky eater,” she writes.)
My alarm goes off. Immediately, I recall that today is not a normal day at my desk at home, writing copy for the hotels for which I’m the communications director. Today is a day in which I must also focus on my book, and it’s going to be a doozy.
I go make myself some jet fuel. While the coffee pot is on the stove, I turn on my morning music: Alice Coltrane Radio on Spotify, which both soothes and invigorates me at once with its harp and organ. It’s still almost completely dark out, but, from the living room, I can see the first blush of light above a little slice of the 59th Street Bridge. This sight (and the coffee) has its usual effect: I have a jolt of how lucky I am to be exactly where I am—in this home with this child.
Photographed by OK McCausland 6:15 a.m. It’s been a challenge to pry Viva from sleep for her new kindergarten wake-up time, so I am delightfully surprised when I open the door to her tiny bedroom (the tiny bedroom of my childhood!) and she’s sitting in front of her dollhouse at play. Blaring Alice Coltrane and Éthiopiques is clearly an excellent, calming way to start her day too.
Viva colors while she eats her breakfast of a cinnamon-raisin English muffin with Nutella ( I know, I know ), berries, and juice. Indeed, I am a food writer whose child is a picky eater. A predawn morning is not the hour to prove points.
Photographed by OK McCausland I help Viva dress for school even though I am supposed to let her do it entirely independently. My excuse is that time is of the essence, but that’s true in more ways than one. I stare at her long, lithe limbs and wonder where my chubby baby has gone. Since having her, time has changed. It used to be something that haunted me with its slow creep; now I am always chasing more of it.
Our school bus is meant to arrive at 7:22 but is always outrageously early or late. I receive a text from the dad of an older girl who also gets picked up at our stop, saying “The bus is running early,” so I grab a coat and Viva’s things and we dash. As we make our way, I feel enormously grateful for this relative stranger whose tiny updates help my life be less stressful. As a parent in general, but particularly as a solo parent, supportive gestures that help the wheels stay on (and help me avoid a school run) are more appreciated that I can express.
We do a weird little dance while we wait, with Viva basically inside my coat for warmth and cuddles. The song I hum is vaguely reminiscent of the Beverly Hills Cop theme song. I don’t care what I look like in these stolen silly moments of just being her mother.
Photographed by OK McCausland 7:20 a.m. Back home and I hop in the shower. My literary agent, Andy McNicol, is picking me up to go to a breakfast hosted at Claudette by owner Carlos Suarez on lower Fifth to celebrate my memoir, Desire Feeds the Feast .
Andy is right on time and we head downtown. Twenty minutes into the ride, I ask the driver why we skipped our exit off the FDR, and it turns out that it’s because he has the wrong address. I tease Andy about typing without wearing her glasses. One of the many indignities of aging is that none of us seem to be able to see without our glasses.
We arrive at Claudette and I instantly feel more calm. Writing the book has been a very solitary experience—done after Viva falls asleep—and finally getting to squeeze my pals and feel less alone in it is a balm to my nerves.
Photographed by OK McCausland 9:30 a.m. So many people I love are here from many chapters of my life, and an adorable number of them are wearing red and black—a clear nod to my book cover—as am I. My friend Batsheva Hay clocks my dress and asks if it’s vintage Geoffrey Beene. We both laugh: She’d had her eye on the same one on The RealReal. I am the geek who enjoys matching my book cover. Plus there’s a great vintage Geoffrey Beene scene in the book (i.e., in my life), so it feels pleasantly full circle.
Photographed by OK McCausland Photographed by OK McCausland 11 a.m. The breakfast ends and I prepare to depart for the rest of my day. I tucked jeans into my bag, but, unfortunately, I forgot to put in a shirt. Classic me to find myself in this predicament on a day that I am reporting to, ahem, Vogue . I put on my leather jacket without a shirt underneath and go hunting for a T-shirt before my next rendezvous. Save Khaki United on Greenwich Avenue seems like the best and closest option, and sure enough, I find a perfect simple long-sleeve T-shirt there.
I meet creative director Anna Polonsky at the new Santo Taco on Carmine, where she’s overseeing a photo shoot with Gentl and Hyers of the food and space. Anna and I have done branding projects together for both Troutbeck and Belden House & Mews, the sister hotels with which I work. We catch up over agua frescas and divine tacos and discuss branding for Firehouse—the soon-to-open membership and events space for Belden. We soon discover we will also both be at the same event later that night; love it when that happens.
Photographed by OK McCausland 12:15 p.m. I fly by The Strand , the legendary bookstore where I am launching my book on November 4 (!), and its events director greets me for a quick tour of the room I’ll be in. I am completely verklempt to see my book on little posters, including on the elevator. I’m pinching myself…even more so when I am taken to the greenroom and see the walls covered in photos of my literary idols who have read there.
Photographed by OK McCausland 1 p.m. I walk up Broadway to the Malin to meet Angela Ledgerwood of the podcast Lit Up to record an episode on my book. We also did one for Savor: A Chef’s Hunger for More , which I coauthored with Fatima Ali, and since our last recording session, Angela married a friend of mine from high school. They’ve become winemakers, launching Old Sound Vineyard on the North Fork. If insomnia and needing glasses are drawbacks of getting older, one of the enormous pleasures is this sort of happenstance: people you love finding love with people you love.
Photographed by OK McCausland 2:30 p.m. I take the R train downtown to meet Charlie Champalimaud, an owner of Troutbeck and Belden, at Thompson Street Studio , where artist Kiva Motnyk has her more commercial practice. Charlie has commissioned a work by Kiva for Belden, so we go to see sketches for it and discuss timing for delivery. I learn that Kiva grew up in the building we are in, which feels like another good omen, since my book is about unexpectedly finding myself in the New York City apartment in which I began.
I am properly zonked. I consider a taxi but despise being stuck in traffic and the absurd prices, so I get on the R at Prince Street and start to tackle my neglected emails. I am so distracted and fried that I forget to switch to the Q and accidentally go to Queens instead of 86th Street. Amateur hour. I take the train back to Manhattan and hail a cab to make up for lost time.
I pick Viva up and we head home. I ask her what she had for lunch at school, and she tells me “applesauce, french fries, and broccoli.” Super.
Home. Quick dinner of “crispy chicken,” which is hammered panko and egg-battered chicken breasts that I made the night before and is no longer crispy, blanched broccoli (Viva’s requested veg for the night, despite its presence at lunch), and avocado with sea salt.
Photographed by OK McCausland 5:30 p.m. Photographed by OK McCausland The lovely sitter arrives and immediately engages Viva in an art project. Nothing is normal this month of book launch and tour, and it would be impossible without my mother and support system of other mom friends helping enormously. I am so tired that when I sit down for a moment of sunshine on the terrace, I consider bailing on my plans for the evening, but the sitter is already here.
Photographed by OK McCausland 6 p.m. Photographed by OK McCausland I arrive at Le Monde Beryl ’s new shop on 67th Street for a cocktail party cohosted by The Perfect. One of my oldest friends, Lily Hanbury, started LMB 10 years ago with Katya Shifrin, and they’ve just opened this stunning store designed by Silka Rittson-Thomas. I live in Le Monde Beryl shoes because I can walk everywhere fast in them (Viva calls fast walking “city walking,” which I love). I am wearing a long silk dress by DeMeric , really chosen for my next and final stop, so am a bit dressed up for the cocktail at LMB, but old buddies and immediate laughter (with me? at me?) make it irrelevant.
Photographed by OK McCausland 7 p.m. I arrive on that strange crest of 57th Street to the Russian Tea Room, which is celebrating 100 years. I’m in a room with my food world family…as well as the trademark bawdy ice sculptures, gilt details, and red patina. I try to recall the last time I was here. I think it was 1999, at a dinner with Paris Hilton before a wild evening at a nightclub.
Photographed by OK McCausland My exhaustion hits me hard. We restaurant folk commence our usual conversation of where we can go to get food immediately, and I suggest Dim Sum Palace, around the corner on 56th. It is not a palace, but it is a great place to go when you’re starving with six friends and no reservation at 8:30 on a gorgeous autumnal Thursday.
Home. When you parent alone, a babysitter who puts things in the dishwasher is like winning the lottery. I climb into the loft bed that was once mine and kiss my child, pulling the covers she’s kicked off back over her. As I fall asleep in my own bed, I am thinking of how well our home fits us—a mother and child, just us. It’s still pretty unfathomable that I lived in this fabulous but not so large apartment with two parents until I was 15. My last thought is to marvel at the strangeness of it all, the gift of it, being here with her. All this searching, hunger, and marveling is what drove me to write the book. Good night.
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Source: Lifestyle
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