When I arrived at the Fulton Street house my mother was dressed beautifully. On the occasion, she would cook one of my favorite dishes. She understood and encouraged my self-reliance and I looked forward eagerly to our standing appointment. Mother picked up Guy twice a week and took him to her house, where she fed him peaches and cream and hot dogs, but I only went to Fulton Street once a month and at an agreed-upon time. She had a live-in employee, Poppa, who cleaned the house and sometimes filled in as cook helper. Oriental rugs were placed throughout the house. The upholstery on the sofa and occasional chairs was red-wine-colored mohair. 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.

Mom and me and mom maya angelou