Belles on their Toes

write-ups about the contract, a newsreel man phoned Mother and said he'd like to bring a crew to Montclair to photograph her in her efficiency kitchen.
    "I'd love to have you," Mother told him, "but you see we haven't set up the efficiency kitchen yet. All we have are the blueprints."
    "That's all right," the newsreel man said, "we'll just shoot you in your kitchen there at the house."
    "I don't believe that would be exactly suitable," Mother gulped.
    "The public would never know the difference. They don't know one efficiency kitchen from another."
    "They don't?" Mother stalled.
    "No. And I'm sure that, being an efficiency expert, the kitchen in your home must be pretty much the latest word."
    "But what we want," said Mother, "is the very latest word, isn't it? Not just pretty much."
    "What we really want, Mrs. Gilbreth, is just some human interest stuff. Nothing scientific. Just you in the kitchen with the children around."
    "I see," Mother said brightly, groping desperately for a way out. "Human interest." She thought of Tom's kitchen. Now if what they wanted only were animal interest....
    "We can come out any day this week that's convenient."
    "I'm afraid I'm all booked up this week. How about some other time?" Her tone of voice was meant to convey that some other time like the year after next would be just right.
    "We want to get this while the story's still news. It'll be fine publicity for your business. And it will only take a few minutes."
    "All right," Mother surrendered. "Let's make it Saturday, then. Say three o'clock Saturday afternoon."
    The course wasn't in session on Saturdays and, more important still, Tom would be off duty. Both Dad and Mother had tried in the past to modernize the kitchen, but Tom and his predecessor had been set in their ways. Mother decided that the least said to Tom about the matter, the better.
    She drew up a diagram for out kitchen, and she arranged with a plumber and a gas man to come Saturday to raise the sink and move the stove.
    Tom usually left the house after lunch Saturdays, and returned early Sunday mornings. This time, Mother gave him the whole day off and he departed shortly after breakfast. He was in a gay, holiday mood. He intimated that a large segment of the female population of West Orange, a town bordering on Montclair where Tom spent most of his time oft, was going to be in for a pleasant surprise when he made his appearance four hours ahead of schedule.
    The plumber and gas man finished their work by noon. We carried Tom's tools and the reading material down into the cellar, and put the canaries in his room in the attic.
    Then Mother made chalk marks on the floor, from her diagram, showing us where she wanted the refrigerator, the table, and a cabinet for food, pans, and mixing bowls. We moved them into place, gave the room a scrubbing, and set up a sort of breakfast nook in the unoccupied half of the kitchen, where the stove used to be.
    Mother went through the motions of making an apple cake, in a dry run to familiarize herself with the location of everything. She scarcely had to move her feet at all. She could reach each appliance from a spot in the center.
    Apple cake, incidentally, was the only dish whose ingredients Mother thoroughly understood. She had grown up in a home where a Chinese chef ruled the kitchen. And she hadn't had time, since her marriage, to learn much about cooking. But apple cake had been one of Dad's favorite dishes, and Mother had memorized the recipe and just how it went together, so she could fix him midnight snacks when he worked late.
    When the newsreel crew arrived, we were dressed in our best clothes—especially Ernestine and Martha, who weren't overlooking any bets in case Hollywood was hunting for new talent.
    While the crew was setting up lights in the parlor, the man in charge explained what he wanted.
    The idea was that Mother would be playing the piano, and we'd be grouped around singing. Mother would turn and ask a question, and we'd lick our lips and rub our stomachs. The scene then would shift to the kitchen, where Mother would be making something with a minimum of motions. And the finale would be in the parlor again, where we'd be eating what she had cooked.
    "Is there something you can make that won't take long?" he asked Mother.
    "I think so," she said.
    "How about chicken chop-suey?" asked Bill.
    "Or blueberry pie?" said Frank.
    "I don't believe there is a blueberry in the house," Mother smiled.
    "There are