My mother had a set of copper cookie cutters that we used every Christmas to make a plate of frosted reindeer- and angel-shaped treats for Santa. This was one of the sweeter childhood memories I have with my mother. I loved how the kitchen would fill with the smells of vanilla extract and butter, and how my fingers turned a rainbow of colors from the homemade frosting that we used to decorate the cookies after they had cooled. We’d pile them on a plate to put out on Christmas Eve, and I marvel at how I can still feel the magic of these memories every time I pull out those cookie cutters. I’m not sure if they were heirlooms passed down from my great-grandmother or, more likely, something my mother bought from Kmart. Regardless, they are now the cornerstones of my daughter’s Christmas, too. That matters most.
I had almost forgotten about making cookies with my mom—until I saw Christian’s mom rolling out cookie dough in her Florida kitchen. We had driven down from New York for the holidays, after 9/11 put a pause on the opening of Millie. It was my first time meeting them, so to see his mom in the kitchen doing something I did with my own mother moved me. It reminded me of the happier times in my childhood.
“I used to make Christmas cookies with my mom,” I said wistfully, hoping she’d invite me to join her.
“Well, you wanna make them with me?” she said.
I felt a flutter in my stomach. “I would love to!” I said.
Christian came into the kitchen, smiling at the two of us making Christmas tree and snowman shapes in the dough before transferring them to the parchment-lined baking sheets.
“What are you two gals up to?” he asked.
“Oh, you know, just making memories,” I said.
I loved Christian’s parents from the first moment I met them. He and I had been dating six months and were already living together when we decided to do that road trip to Florida. They lived on the west coast of the state, near Sarasota, in a big open house with a huge covered porch called a lanai. Christian warned me that he came from a family of “big huggers,” and sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway, they were waiting for us on their front lawn, arms outstretched—literally welcoming me into their home, and family, with open arms. I loved it, and them, immediately.
Beverly Borle had short, sassy brown hair and a raspy cackle. She smoked as much as my mother did, but that was where their similarities ended. Beverly read the New York Times and the local Florida newspaper cover to cover and did both crossword puzzles in ink daily. She always had a pair of scissors close by to snip out articles, coupons, and comic strips that she thought Christian would enjoy, which meant we sporadically received big padded envelopes filled with her finds. Christian’s dad, Andre, was a retired professor of physiology who spoke with a French/Swiss accent. Like Christian, every time he smiled, he lit up the room. As he was giving me a tour of their house, I took note of all the classy and sometimes suggestive art. One painting was of a nude woman with her legs spread. Christian’s dad must have noticed my startled expression, because he said, “What can I say? I’m French!”
Then they showed us to our room. At Christian’s house, there wasn’t even a question about where I would sleep—with him! Duh! Christian’s father and mother were also fabulous cooks, which meant we’d all hang in the kitchen together listening to Blossom Dearie while his father made coq au vin and his mother worked on a tomato tart. I was so moved the first time his parents broke out into an impromptu dance, waltzing around the kitchen. It was so sweet. Suddenly Christian grabbed my hand and we followed suit, dancing with them, buzzed on gin and tonics and laughter.
After dinner, we’d sit on the lanai and play cards. Mr. and Mrs. Borle even taught me how to play bridge. After a few nights, I started to get pretty good. When I tried to ask his father for one more piece of advice, he silenced me and said, “You are no longer a beginner.”
I loved them both very much.
Laughter and dancing in the kitchen and fabulous food were foreign concepts to me. I grew up in a household that had liter bottles of Pepsi in the pantry, next to boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts and bags of Doritos. We were a fast-food family, mainly because my mother was a terrible cook. But she was a stay-at-home mom with a husband who traveled for work as a car salesman, so meal preparation fell to her. And she hated it. My mother had bigger dreams than being a stay-at-home mom. Her apathy showed up at the table in the form of soggy fried chicken and pasta with a tomato sauce that I swear was heated-up ketchup with a dash of black pepper. She made boiled cabbage (the worst!) and an underseasoned beef stew so tough it felt like you were chewing on erasers—no taste, but the texture made your teeth hurt. The most international and exotic food we ever had was tacos, from the Ortega kit. The first time I ever heard about coq au vin was in Christian’s parents’ kitchen.
My dad, on the other hand, loved to cook and would make up for those grim weekday meals on the weekends. Like many Southern men, he takes barbecue seriously. He had a pea-green charcoal grill, and every Saturday evening, he would crack open a Miller Lite and pour lighter fluid over Kingsford charcoal briquettes and newspaper, creating a ginormous fire.
“He’s going to burn the house down,” my mother would grumble.
The chemical scent of lighter fluid mingling with hoppy beer still reminds me of my dad’s cooking—and if I had to pick a last meal, it would be his almost-charred black hockey-puck burgers and the French fries he makes extra delicious by frying a sliced onion in the same pan of oil as the potatoes. My dad, brother, and I would eat these feasts on paper plates tucked into wicker baskets to catch the grease. My mom, meanwhile, would sit with us, picking at an iceberg lettuce salad and sipping her sweetened iced tea.
There was one dish she made that I loved, though. It was a beef Stroganoff that looked like a can of chunky dog food poured onto a plate, but wow, was it delicious! When I left home to go on tour with Will Rogers, that was the one recipe I took with me. I made it for years. First you brown ground beef in a skillet, then you add one can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup and a dollop of sour cream. After letting it simmer a bit, you serve it over egg noodles. When Christian and I started dating, I proudly made beef Stroganoff for him all the time, thinking it was fancy cuisine and I was showing off my culinary skills. He loved it (or is a really good actor).
By then, my parents had moved to the east coast of Florida, a three-hour drive across the state from Christian’s family. I told them that I was driving down to meet Christian’s parents, and that I would come see them as well. Neither one of them said, “Oh, we can’t wait to meet him!” They either remained silent or changed the subject, I can’t remember which. All I know is that I had planned to see them out of my own sense of duty, and I knew better than to suggest that Christian come with me. It wasn’t just to save him from bad food. The last person to come to the house other than me or Hunter was Hunter’s girlfriend, Jen, back when my parents lived in Memphis. That visit, meant to introduce his girlfriend to the family, was the beginning of the alienation between Hunter and my mother. I was trying to protect Christian—and myself—from a similar treatment.
We agreed that Christian would drive me halfway across the state to meet my dad at a Krispy Kreme. As we pulled into the parking lot, my dad was already waiting for us, smoking a cigarette and standing beside their cream-colored Cadillac Escalade, dressed in his weekend uniform: jeans and a polo three sizes too big. (For some reason, my dad likes oversize shirts.) Just as he parked the car, Christian looked at me and said, “I’m a little nervous.”
I didn’t keep any secrets from Christian about my parents—he knew all about their strained relationship with each other, and with Hunter and Jen.
My heart lurched. “Don’t be,” I assured him. “My dad will be totally nice. Plus, it’ll be brief.”
He flashed his sweet smile and jumped out of the car.
“Hello, sir,” he said, reaching his hand out. I noticed it was trembling.
“Hello, Christian,” my dad responded politely, and shook his hand with a nod.
And that was it. I got into my dad’s car, and Christian drove back to his parents’ house. I thought I was doing this to safeguard our still-fledgling relationship. I see now how his normalcy and openness made my parents’ insular dysfunction that much harder to ignore. So the safeguard went two ways: I felt like the only way to continue to have a relationship with my mother was if I just didn’t talk about Christian. Even after Hunter and Jen got married, my mother only ever referred to her as “Hunter’s spouse.” Never by her name. I wish I had fought for her to accept Christian—but I was afraid of being cut off too. With Jen, it was the thong photo. With Christian, it was his bong.
I had been telling my mother about Christian when we were doing The Three Musketeers, and she asked me about him as a potential new boyfriend. I must have talked about him a lot in those early days, before we started dating. She had never inquired about my love life, so it caught me off guard, plus I hadn’t considered Christian as anything more than a friend at that point. “I could never date him,” I said. “He smokes pot.” I had seen a bong in his hotel room and assumed it was his. I was still such a goody two-shoes that I looked down on all drugs.
When we did start dating, a few months later, I told my mom we were together, thinking she would be happy for me. She countered, “But I thought he did drugs?”
“He doesn’t ‘do drugs’!” I said. Truthfully, Christian had stopped smoking even cigarettes (something my mom did until the day she died), but it didn’t matter. After witnessing how she perceived Jen, I knew where this was going, and I tried my best to counter her preconceptions, knowing full well how futile that was.
On that visit to Florida, she didn’t ask me one question about him or our relationship. When I tried to bring him up in conversation, she cut me off with: “He’s not the one. I’ll tell you when you’ve found the one.”
Christian was amazingly patient, but I’m sure deep down it hurt. He was so kind, as were his parents. They all helped me realize just how disconnected my parents were from reality—and that I had been held hostage by my mother’s point of view. The first major hint of that happened when we first started dating, earlier that summer. While I didn’t grow up in a churchgoing family, my mother used Christianity as her moral compass—hence the “living in sin” comments. And I had been doing my own searching, through Bible study classes and attending Sunday services with Michelle, my roommate. Christian and I had only been dating one month when I asked him outright: “Do you believe in God?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m an atheist.”
I almost fell off my chair—literally. I had never heard anyone even use that term, let alone claim to be it!
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Both my parents are atheists. They raised me as an atheist,” he said.
I was shocked and confused. He had all the qualities of a good Christian! He was generous and kind and loyal and ethical—and his name was Christian!
My mother’s influence on me was softening. I saw how she used values rooted in Christianity—like saying sex before marriage is sinful—in an attempt to control me and Hunter. But it backfired. Christian helped me find a healthier, happier middle ground.
It was a painful journey, though. We lived together for five years, and every Christmas my parents would send me a holiday card, bank stock, and a box of Florida citrus—all addressed only to me. The first time that happened, I opened the box of two dozen oranges feeling a pang of hope. Then I read the note: “Dear Sutton: Merry Christmas. Love, Mom and Dad.” No mention of Christian. At first, I was embarrassed. Christian just brushed it off—and helped me eat the oranges—but it was such an aggressive diss. I talked to Hunter, who confirmed that all of his holiday cards and gifts were only ever addressed to him. No mention of Jen, either.
Thankfully, I was regularly seeing Joanne, the therapist Jeanine Tesori had recommended. She defogged my glasses and helped me see my mother as a broken woman, which can be so hard when it’s your mom. She also helped me understand the hold my mom had on me—and my father. Slowly, I began to find my own sense of self, which was like trudging through mud after being programmed for so long by an unhealthy woman. Most poignantly, Joanne helped me mourn the loss of not having the mother I yearned for. I kept wanting and expecting a different reaction. I hoped that she’d come see my opening night in my first starring role! That she would acknowledge my boyfriend’s existence! That she would insist on coming to the Tony Awards to support me whether or not I won! I was starting to see that she was incapable of doing these things. I had to accept her for who she was—and stop wanting her to be someone else.
Meanwhile, Christian’s parents were always coming to New York for visits and were so supportive. They came to see me perform, which partly made up for the fact that my parents were never there. We would hit the town, seeing plays or sightseeing and going out for fancy dinners. ViceVersa was one of our favorite restaurants. It was on Fifty-First Street, and Christian and his mom would always order the vitello tonnato, which is basically thin slices of veal in a tuna-caper sauce. I thought it sounded disgusting until I tried it, and well…it’s delicious! We’d order martinis, eat dessert, have after-dinner drinks, and then stumble home, giddy.
One year, they were in the city on my birthday, and when I came home after a matinee, they surprised me with a Pink Cake from Amy’s Bread, my favorite. My parents always acknowledged my birthday, usually by sending a card, but they were never physically there. Christian’s parents showed up in all the ways my parents could not.
When we got engaged, we sent his parents a photo of us together, me proudly wearing the beautiful square-diamond vintage ring he gave me, as our announcement. They called us as soon as they opened it, and put the phone on speaker so they could both congratulate us together. “Welcome to the family!” his mom was shouting into the receiver joyfully, his dad laughing.
Buoyed by their reaction, we called my parents. We hadn’t sent them a photo, but I was excited to tell them that we would no longer be “living in sin”!
My mother answered.
“Mom, I have some exciting news. I’m engaged!” I said, then waited for some response.
Silence.
I heard her pass the phone to my dad.
“It’s Sutton,” she said.
My heart deflated as I told my dad my news. Christian couldn’t hear the conversation, but he was by my side. His smile faded with mine.
“Okay,” my dad said, sounding subdued.
I hung up and tried to remember Joanne’s advice, but it was hard.
I decided to shift the narrative: no more protecting anyone. Now that we were engaged, it was time for Christian to get to know both of my parents, the people who raised me—and that meant more than a handshake in a parking lot. Enough was enough. I knew they weren’t going to come to New York to meet him, so I had to bring him to them. My hope was that once my mother met him in person, she would see how much we loved each other and would support our marriage. That he wasn’t some drugged-out druggy drug dealer, or whatever image she had created in her mind. That maybe she would even help me pick out my wedding dress and that she would come see her daughter get married. Christian knew the story of Hunter’s torn-up wedding invitation. Still, he was game to meet them. He knew how important it was to me.
This was 2006. Christian was in Spamalot at the time, and I was in rehearsals for the Broadway run of The Drowsy Chaperone. We flew down to Florida after his Sunday matinee and drove straight to my parents’ house. We stayed at a hotel in Orlando and planned to go to Disney World the next day as a palate cleanser after what I knew would be an emotionally exhausting experience, whether it went well or not.
Christian was the first visitor besides me who had ever entered their Florida house. It was a block from the beach and reeked of cigarette smoke. They had bought new furniture when they moved from New Jersey—their sixth move in my lifetime—so nothing was familiar to me other than the cross-stitch basket scene I’d made for my mother, which hung in the entryway, and an afghan blanket that lay at the foot of her bed. They were the two constants throughout all those moves. Her room was downstairs, my dad’s upstairs. I had explained all this to Christian, so he wasn’t surprised by any of it. He was such a trooper. That evening, my dad got Sonny’s BBQ and sat with me and Christian at the kitchen table. My mom was perched on a barstool—at the table, elevated, not on the same plane. She didn’t even fix herself a plate. I can’t remember what we talked about—only that we ate quickly and then said our goodbyes.
“It was nice to meet you,” my mother said. She was cordial, but there were no hugs, handshakes, or laughter. And certainly, there was no dancing in the kitchen—not that I was expecting it. Still, I had hoped Christian’s charm and kindness would thaw her toward him, and us. I say “her” because I was never worried about how my dad might react. If anything, he just seemed numb. I honestly couldn’t understand why he stayed with her all those years. But then again, I kept coming back, hoping this time she might change. Maybe he kept hoping she would change, too. On that trip, I kept looking for a flicker in her, but she was unmoved, so stubborn.
She did suggest that Christian and I take a walk on the beach after dinner, which was a relief—I couldn’t wait to leave. I didn’t know yet that she had never visited that beach, even though she was the one who insisted they live near it. Christian and I walked hand in hand toward the ocean, breathing in the salty air. It felt cleansing after being in the stuffy, cigarette-scented house. We kicked off our shoes and dug our toes into the sand and looked up at the full moon bright in the sky.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally said.
Sorry that I didn’t have a normal family. Sorry that they didn’t embrace him like his family embraced me. Sorry that it was so complicated.
He just hugged me tight. And then we drove back to our hotel in Orlando and drank Manhattans at the bar.
Christian and I decided to get married at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden—I wanted to be barefoot with flowers in my hair at an outdoor ceremony. I called home to tell my parents, once again excited to share my vision with them.
My mother’s response stunned me into silence:“You knew if you got married in New York I wouldn’t come.”
How does one respond to that? That was her power—her way of controlling things. I was beginning to piece all of these things together in therapy.
“If your mother were physically disabled and couldn’t move, would you ask her to walk?” my therapist asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
“You have to think of your mother’s agoraphobia that way. She is emotionally unable to be in the world. She is unable to leave her own home. She cannot do it. No matter how many times you ask. You must accept that. And stop expecting a different outcome.”
I was beginning to understand this, but it was still crushing.
While I knew she wasn’t able to come to my wedding, I still wanted her to be there. Just like I wanted her to be at my opening night of Millie. I always made excuses for why she wasn’t there—she hated the crowds, 9/11 intensified her fears—and gave her a way to excuse them. But it did not take away from the feeling that I wanted my mommy to be at my wedding. The mantra “acceptance without expectations” helped me make sense of her meanness—but it didn’t always lessen the pain.
Christian and I planned and paid for our wedding together. I handmade every single save-the-date card and our wedding invitation, too. I had a crafting night instead of a bridal shower, which Julien hosted at his art studio on Avenue B. My friends Stephanie and Michelle came, as did Megan McGinnis, a new friend I had met on Little Women, which I did right after Millie. Hunter and Jen joined with a few other friends, and we drank champagne punch and made cake toppers out of Sculpey clay, which is like Play-Doh for grown-ups. We picked our favorites, a simple bride and groom made by our good friend Joe Farrell and his girlfriend Jen Taylor. It went on top of an extra-large Pink Cake from Amy’s Bread.
We got married on September 18, 2006, on a beautiful grassy lawn near the glass greenhouse at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. One hundred fifty people came, including my dad and both my aunts—Mary Anne and Linda, my dad’s sister. Christian’s parents were over the moon—his mom was buzzing around among the guests, so incredibly proud and excited. Stephanie and Megan sang “My Romance” with Joe Farrell and Jeff Dattilo as my dad walked me not down the aisle but into a circle that everyone had formed holding hands.
“Dad, thank you for being here,” I said as I linked my arm through his. “It means the world to me.”
“I’m not missing my daughter’s wedding, no matter what wrath I might face when I get home,” he said as he kissed me on the cheek. “I wish your mom could see how beautiful you look.”
“I love you, Daddy,” I said.
I wore a gauzy Vera Wang empire-waist dress and a flower wreath in my hair. Michael Rafter conducted, and we all sang “Till There Was You” from The Music Man with Patrick Wilson and Matt Stocke on ukulele.
Christian and I were married beneath a willow tree.
And my mom, true to her word, was not there.
After we got married, I asked Christian’s mom to send me a few of her favorite recipes. I wasn’t naturally a good cook, but I wanted to learn. I had visions of Christian and me cooking and dancing in the kitchen as we prepared delicious meals, just like his parents. She sent me envelopes of printed-out and handwritten recipes: that coq au vin, her famed tomato tart, a pasta carbonara, and chicken cordon bleu. I also asked her to share her Christmas cookie recipe with me, which she dictated over the phone. I wrote it in pencil in a yellow Mead notebook, which now lives in my kitchen.
I started making those cookies every year for Christmas—and continued, even after Christian and I separated. After my mother died, when I helped my father clear out the Florida house, I asked him if I could have her copper cookie cutters and all the cross-stitched ornaments—the happier heirlooms, the ones I want to pass on to Emily.
Now, I make Mama Borle’s Christmas cookies with my daughter. Both of Christian’s parents have also passed away, but that recipe lives on. We pull out those cookie cutters, and Emily climbs up on her periwinkle-blue stool and helps me add all the ingredients into a big ceramic bowl, flour dusting our clothes and noses as we measure and stir. We then roll out the sticky dough and make shapes of Christmas trees, and angels, and reindeer, sneaking tastes of raw dough and waiting patiently for the cookies to cool so we can ice them, licking our rainbow-colored fingers and laughing.
My mom never got to meet Emily, but in a way, Emily gets to know her grandma through this sweet ritual, one I have made my own for my daughter, borrowing from Christian’s mom’s cookie recipe and infusing the experience with her big heart. I even use homemade vanilla extract made by Marilyn, my dad’s lady friend whom he met after my mom died. For me, it was a lesson in how you can pick and choose different life ingredients, focusing on the sweetest ones, mixing them all together.
Recently, my husband, Ted, smiled as he walked into the kitchen.
“What are you two gals up to?” he asked.
“Oh, you know. Just making memories.”