I figured it was a fair trade. I got a boost of professional encouragement from Mrs. Eisenberg, and she got to complain about Elaine and life in her gated golfing community. But, truth is, with no communicationbetween us for more than a month, I had to dig up my own motivation and personal accountability from my younger days, and it was tough. I missed Mrs. Eisenberg’s joke about how to eat an elephant. Her wise maxims help stop me from getting ahead of myself and from sinking too deep into the headspace where all mycan’tsare housed. If I had a dollar for every time Mrs. Eisenberg told me,You get what you work for not what you wish for, I would have no problem financing Brown Butter, Baby! myself. Given Mrs. Eisenberg’s regular reminders of my potential, I finally have something tangible to show for it.
When I got the text from Ash, knowing I would be seeing Mrs. Eisenberg stoked my fire. In the week between my invitation to her home and now, I landed on the perfect size of glass jars I wanted to use. I settled on clear glass for its repurposing and recycling potential, but also so customers can see the lotion and determine which shade best matches their skin tone. With the help of Lou and Coco, I designed a Brown Butter, Baby! logo. By pure coincidence, my Stanford professor asked the class to look into the multitude of distribution channels available for new products we were interested in bringing to market. I took the assignment one step further and outlined the dozens of hurdles I will most likely face when trying to launch Brown Butter, Baby! into the world.
I neatly line up my four lotion shades on the coffee table in front of Mrs. Eisenberg, like little soldiers reporting for duty. I can tell she’s reserving commentary until after I have presented my all-in-one lotion elevator pitch. As I begin my prepared talk, I spy her biting her lower lip, seemingly holding back enthusiasm. That small indication of advanced praise gives me the spark I need to speak up, even with Ash, a venture capitalist icon, looming in the next room.
“Here I have the first four products of my Brown Butter, Baby! all-natural, all-in-one lotions. I have perfected the specifications for four skin tones, but more will be released down the road.” I give Mrs. Eisenberg a moment to take in each jar before I continue. “The first I call Diospyros, which is the scientific name for ebony wood foundin East Africa. I named this one for women like Zwena who are lucky enough to walk this world with skin so deeply melanated they barely need SPF.” Standing between the coffee table and Mrs. Eisenberg on the couch, I hold up the first jar, label facing my friend so she can admire the font I selected. “Next is called Theobroma for a tree that is endemic to the Caribbean, which I matched to my mom’s chestnut skin. As you can see, Theobroma is lighter than Diospyros, but not as light as Nephelium, labeled for the Middle Eastern–grown rambutan tree. This shade is for those with a henna hue to their skin like mine.”
I hold the fourth jar up to Mrs. Eisenberg’s forearm so she can see how closely the lotion matches her skin tone, typical to those who live near the Mediterranean, even if she has missed the last month in the sun. I share with her that I want to elevate my lotions by using correct scientific names, so I opted for each cream to be named for the genus of a tree. That decision I felt was genius.
“So, last but not least,” I proudly proclaim, “is Prunus, which I mixed for White women who have a darker pigmentation, like you, Mrs. Eisenberg.”
“I don’t know what you mean bygenus, but it sounds like you named my skin shade after a prune tree,” Mrs. Eisenberg concludes after what I thought was a very thorough and professional presentation. The first one I have given about my product line.
“Well, botanists refer to it as prunus dulcis, so I also named you after something sweet,” I offer, dismissing Mrs. Eisenberg’s concern.
“It’s still a prune tree.”
“It’s actually an almond tree.”
“Almonds are wrinkled too,” Mrs. Eisenberg insists, not the least bit swayed.
Mrs. Eisenberg doesn’t realize that mixing each blend to create the first four hues of Brown Butter, Baby! was easier and caused less brain strain than naming the shades. When I think of Zwena’s skin, so rich in melanin, my mind appreciates the biochemistry involved in its creation, the wonder of its power against the sun, the possible efficacy ofits chemical makeup to be used to treat skin cancer. The science of it is astonishing to me.
I tried other paths to describe skin colors, but there are people who feel some type of way about being calledfudge brick,nut brown,coffee colored, ordark chocolate. Since starting this labeling endeavor, I’ve often reflected on the nagging gatekeeping ringing in the back of my head: “Do I look like food to you!?” Finding words to describe Zwena’s inky color, or mine that is mixed-race, without insulting customers and inciting cancelers, makes my head spin and has certainly kept me up at night worrying. To stay safely out of the language wars, I decided to stick with the scientific names of indigenous trees for my initial color formulas. Science is proven, methodical, and predictable; the probability of falling under the heel of cancel culture is not.
“Give me that wrinkly hand,” I instruct Mrs. Eisenberg with a wink. I place the jar in Mrs. Eisenberg’s palm, having observed her right side is by far her stronger hand and luckily her dominant side.
“Nice branding,” Mrs. Eisenberg judges, not taking her eyes off my logo design. “Not too trendy or targeted to a narrow age bracket.”
I grin listening to Mrs. Eisenberg toss out business lingo. Probably due to a long month listening to Ash talk at her about possible investment opportunities. Maybe I’ll invite myself to come back again next week for another Brown Butter, Baby! update and to watch a movie with her for a change in entertainment. There’s a new comedy out with George Clooney, who I know for a fact Mrs. Eisenberg fancies. She takes myPeoplemagazines every time he graces the cover.
Ash rejoins us, carrying our drinks in textured highball glasses on a pretty wooden serving tray with gold handles.
“Ash, the logo reminds me a bit of Maxwell Street Records, don’t you think?”
Resting his hand on his grandmother’s shoulder, Ash agrees with a gentleness in his voice I haven’t heard before. “Sure does.”
We are all looking at the jar in Mrs. Eisenberg’s hand when she asks demurely, “Would you mind opening this for me, Antonia?”
Turning red, I quickly pluck the container out of her hand. How insensitive of me not to realize that with the jar in her good hand, there is no way her left could unscrew the top.
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Eisenberg assures me, reading concern on my face. “I’m just grateful to be here. Alive with a bad arm is better than the alternative.”
“It sure is,” I agree and pick up Mrs. Eisenberg’s left arm to massage in a healthy dollop of Prunus cream. Ash audibly clears his throat in uneasiness at his grandmother’s allusion to death.
“But the names of your products are terrible.”
Ash takes his grandmother’s bluntness as his cue to flee the living room.
“No, they’re not. They’re proper scientific names for the tree that each skin tone represents.” I am not going to be the one to convince Mrs. Eisenberg of the consequences of colorization. The topic of racial labels is bigger than body lotion and too big for a Monday afternoon visit.
“It’s too hard to remember any of these names. And frankly, who cares what the accurate scientific term is. What you should care about is how anyone, when they go into Walgreens, is going to ask for, for ... hell, I can’t even remember any of the names, and I just heard them. Brand recognition and name retrieval mean everything for retail sales.”
I smile along with Mrs. Eisenberg’s feedback, but I know that the cream names are just fine. It’s her short-term memory that’s not firing at her age and that’s absolutely normal, particularly after a massive health scare. Plus, age and stroke aside, if it’s not Chanel, Dior, or Elizabeth Arden, is someone like Mrs. Eisenberg really going to remember a product like mine anyway? Or go into Walgreens? Women of any age who are well-to-doers like Mrs. Eisenberg are shopping for their beauty products at department stores like Neiman Marcus, ducking aggressive salespeople to reach the counters of their preferred high-end labels. Though I love her input, at the end of the day, I do not consider Mrs. Eisenberg my target market.
“Well, do what you think is best,” Mrs. Eisenberg says begrudgingly, tugging one of the piled-on throws over her chest. “But don’t discredit my input because I’m old.” I drop my head, shocked that Mrs. Eisenberg has read my mind. “I’ve been around more than twice as long as you’ve been alive, Antonia. Believe me, I know some things, and I’ve certainly bought some things.”
Taking in this house over the last hour, I can’t argue with her purchasing power.
