Sunday, April 3, 1921, 2:31am

Posted by Gertrude Stein

Our Saturday evening meeting ran late. Alice calls them our "literary salons," but that title seems a little stuffy to me. Hemingway read me a story he is drafting. Alice stuck her head out from the kitchen and scowled at him, while he read. Jealously, I think. Jealously of his brilliance. Possessive, I think. Possessive of me.

A Poodle

I am writing Alice's autobiography, because she will never write it herself. Too busy in the kitchen and cleaning my desk and walking Basket the poodle and proofreading my manuscripts and fixing me tea and mending the tablecloth and buying lilacs and inviting friends and answering letters and gardening and shopping and listening and scowling.

In her autobiography, I will become Alice; I will write in Alice's voice. She remembers the first time we met...
"Mrs. Stein brought with her three little Matisse paintings, the first modern things to cross the Atlantic. I made her acquaintance at this time of general upset and she showed them to me, she also told me many stories of her life in Paris. Gradually I told my father that perhaps I would leave San Francisco. He was not disturbed by this, after all there was at that time a great deal of going and coming and there were many friends of mine going. Within a year I also had gone and I had come to Paris. There I went to see Mrs. Stein who had in the meantime returned to Paris, and there at her house I met Gertrude Stein. I was impressed by the coral brooch she wore and by her voice. I may say that only three times in my life have I met a genius and each time a bell within me rang and I was not mistaken, and I may say in each case it was before there was any general recognition of the quality of genius in them. The three geniuses of whom I wish to speak are Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso and Alfred Whitehead. I have met many important people, I have met several great people but I have only known three first class geniuses and in each case on sight within me something rang. In no one of the three cases have I been mistaken. In this way my new full life began."

I clearly remember that day. The entry from my journal reads,

Alice B. Toklas in 1949
Photo by Carl Van Vechten

September 8, 1906.
Alice "was a golden brown presence, burned by the Tuscan sun and with a golden glint in her warm brown hair. She was dressed in a warm brown corduroy suit. She wore a large round coral brooch and when she talked, very little, or laughed, a good deal, I thought her voice came from this brooch. It was unlike anyone else's voice — deep, full, velvety, like a great contralto's, like two voices."

We never parted after that day.

Alice is asleep. I will join her. She rises early, and I sleep late. We never see each other in the morning, so I will leave her a note on her pillow, as I often do. It says,

Alice,
Do not scowl at Hemmingway. He has my attention only a few hours a week; even then, I think of you.  Let's browse St-Ouen Puces today and buy those earrings you liked from last week, and we can bring Basket to les Halles de Paris to pick up a chicken for dinner.
Your Darling,
Gertrude

(Read more of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas here)

Sunday, March 6, 1921

Posted by Gertrude Stein

Parisian Fruit Tartlets

I am writing and Alice is cooking.  This is how we move through our Sundays together.  I compose stories; she chops onions.  I chop stanzas; she composes tartlets.  Silently.  Together.

I told Alice to write a cookbook - a cookbook with memories of our dinners, our friends, our lives.  Here is Alice's writing about Pablo...

Bass for Picasso
One day when Picasso was to lunch with us I decorated a fish in a way that I thought would amuse him.  I chose a fine striped bass and cooked it according to a theory of my grandmother who had no experience in cooking and who rarely saw her kitchen but who had endless theories about cooking as well as about many other things.  I was proud of my chef d'oeuvre when it was served and Picasso exclaimed at its beauty.  But, said he, should it not rather have been made in honour of Matisse than of me.

Pablo Picasso

Picasso was for many years on a strict diet; in fact, he managed somehow to continue it through the World War and the Occupation and, characteristically, only relaxed after the Liberation.  Red meat was prescribed, but that presented no difficulties, for in those days beef was rarely served by the French except the inevitable roast fillet of beef with sauce Madere.  Chicken, too, was not well considered, though a roast leg of mutton was viewed with more favour.  Or, we would have a tender loin of veal preceded by a spinach soufflé, spinach having been highly recommended by Picasso's doctor and a soufflé being the least objectionable way of preparing it.  Could it not be made more interesting by adding a sauce?  But what sauce would Picasso's diet permit?  I would give him a choice.  The soufflé would be cooked in a well-buttered mold, placed in boiling water and when sufficiently cooked turned into a hollow dish around which in equal divisions would be placed a Hollandaise sauce, a cream sauce and a tomato sauce.  It was my hope that the tri-coloured sauces would make the spinach soufflé look less nourishing.  Cruel enigma, said Picasso, when the soufflé was served to him.

(Read more of The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook at on Google Books)

Sunday, February 6, 1921, 11:16am

Posted by Gertrude Stein

Alice brought me tea this morning. She kissed my head and opened the curtains. "Even geniuses must get out of bed eventually, Gertrude," she said. I'm certain she has been up since six.

Last night's salon was its usual success. Hemingway brought a copy of his new story for Fitzgerald to read. Matisse brought his latest painting. I must buy it, although I do not know where I have room to hang it.

Alice was there, silently. She filled drinks. She emptied ashtrays. She talked with the wives in the kitchen. Hemingway doesn't think much of her, calling her, simply, my companion. But he does not know her. I know her because I know her.

I am writing a poem for Alice. I call it The Love Song of Alice B.

I caught sight of a splendid Misses. She had handkerchiefs and kisses. She had eyes and yellow shoes she had everything to choose and she chose me.

In passing through France she wore a Chinese hat and so did I.
In looking at the sun she read a map. And so did I.
In eating fish and pork she just grew fat. And so did I.
In loving a blue sea she had a pain. And so did I.
In loving me she of necessity thought first. And so did I.

How prettily we swim. Not in water. Not on land. But in love.

How often do we need trees and hills. Not often.
And how often do we need birds. Not often.
And how often do we need wishes. Not often.
And how often do we need glasses not often.

We drink wine and we make well we have not made it yet.
How often do we need a kiss. Very often and we add when tenderness overwhelms us we speedily eat veal.

And what else, ham and a little pork and raw artichokes and ripe olives and chester cheese and cakes and caramels and all the melon. We still have a great deal of it left. I wonder where it is. Conserved melon. Let me offer it to you.