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The sweet legacy of ‘Fruitman’ Marshall Norstein, a shared record of love and nutrition

To announce, the day after Marsh’s passing, that there would be no more fruit plates, this was Elaine’s photo. (Photo: Elaine Durbach)

By Elaine Durbach

22 Nov 2024

Journalist Elaine Durbach relocated to the United States decades ago. When she resurfaced on Facebook, old friends in South Africa found her again — through her husband’s eccentric fruit plates. She would post pictures, we would respond. Then, suddenly, they disappeared. We asked Elaine why.

My husband of 30 years, Marshall Norstein, died very suddenly a few weeks ago. A multitalented fixer, photographer, and creator, he was totally impractical about his career status, so he wasn’t rich or famous. But he did leave a unique record — of his fruit plates.

In a way, ours was a strange marriage. He was born and brought up in Brooklyn and still lived there when we met. I was born in Zimbabwe, had lived in Zambia, Lesotho and South Africa, and had come to the United States on a World Press Institute fellowship. At the time, I was writing for the United Nations in Manhattan.

We met through a personal ad in a neighbourhood newspaper in 1993 when we were both 40. His ad described him as a Renaissance man, “mad about motorcycles, fine art and cooking. Interested in starting a family.” Aside from both being Jewish, that last item was the only thing we had in common. I didn’t ride bikes or drive, and had no interest in cooking. I loved writing; he couldn’t spell. He loved dancing; I have the proverbial two left feet.

But we both adored entertaining friends, preferred freelancing to steady work, and – yes, really wanted to start a family. Our son, Gabe, was born 10 months after we met. I miscarried three times in the following years, so he is an only child. When he was three, we moved from Brooklyn to New Jersey, to lovely, tree-lined Maplewood.

While Marsh was cooking and building and repairing, I was writing. I’ve just self-published my third novel; he didn’t read any of them — but he did take the author photograph I use on my covers. He also took care of the building we live in, home of the local Ethical Culture Society.

And then there were the fruit plates.

They began with me cutting up some fruit for myself as part of a Fit for Life diet, but Marsh took over doing the fruit because he was the feeder of the family. Being diabetic, he was unable to partake so early in the day and Gabe wasn’t interested in that kind of breakfast, so the platters were entirely mine. (To anyone curious about their dietary impact, I’ve eaten that fruit through weight gains and losses, apparently without impact either way.) Marsh assembled them, using a growing array of favoured platters and whatever produce Costco offered, six days a week for 20 years.

That ritual became a mirror of our respective obsessions.

Being constitutionally unable to not arrange food artistically, he began composing different designs each morning. He called those creations his love letters to me, and his morning meditation. They were totally spontaneous, and different every day.

And I, unable to gobble such artistry without first recording it, would place the plate on my wooden floor and photograph it with my mobile phone. The photographer in Marshall couldn’t handle that slipshod method, so he set them up on a black cloth, on a kitchen counter that received morning sun, and — because we fancied different angles — we both took pictures.

We dubbed ourselves Fruitman and Fruiteater. I posted my photos on Facebook (FB) and invited viewers to caption them. He posted his on his FB page. We both titled our pictures. While I strived for literary allusions, he — the typical pun-loving photographer — was way more flippant.

For example:“Ooh, look, a pastrami sandwich!” “Ready for my school pic, Mrs. Rafferty.” “The devil in drag.” “Elvis has left the building.”

Left: Marshall’s title: ‘Na Nanana.’ Friend Anne Westoby’s caption: ‘Cameo of toucan sporting a beaded mohawk.’ From a friend in England, Pamela Mudge Wood: ‘Carmen Banana.’ (Photo: Elaine Durbach) Right: Marshall’s ‘Don’t you just love my bufont hair dew?’ (Photo: Elaine Durbach)

But our friends — local folks and others all over the world, from school and ’varsity and work — came up with the best captions. They seemed to get better and better, drawing on books and songs and movie titles, or just wild imagination. Bananas, predictably, seem to trigger only one kind of comment; yellow quiffs with orange complexions evoke you-know-who. There were seldom fewer than 10 responses; often there were 40 or more.

Among my favourites were some from a friend from my days at Wynberg Girls High in Cape Town, artist Anne Westoby. For one I called “Paragliders’ knitting circle” she suggested: “Hoopla go the gliders as the beanies and scarves haphazardly form.”

For a platter Marshall titled, “Don’t you just love my bufont hair dew…” (original spelling), Anne wrote, “Calypso exuberance on Freedom Day in Trinidad!”

On one I merely called “Licken Chicken”, Rhodes University pal, Linda Ihle, a writer and former teacher, said, “Ah, Raggedy Ann’s got her shoes on back’ards and her skirt is upside down. She buttoned her broekies instead of her vest, but orange ya glad she made an effort to become the apple of someone’s eye!”

On Tuesdays, I took a break from trying to think up a headline. Instead, before going out for our weekly breakfast, I’d do something that was supposed to be quicker, simply “Tuesday Title Challenge”. Except, a different challenge emerged: every week I tried to find a different way to spell those three words. Recent ones have included “2yewzdai Tightel Tjalinj”, and “Tuicedae Teitil Tshalange”, and “Tyoozday Tidal Tyalunj”. It drove Spellcheck nuts.

Left: Marshall Norstein’s final work of fruity art. (Photo: Elaine Durbach) Right: Elaine Durbach at a signing of one of her trio of novels. (Photo: Michele Hollow)

On a Saturday in mid-October, Marsh made his last platter. We didn’t know that; there was no warning, or none we recognised. The following day, returning from buying bagels for our Sunday breakfast, he had a heart attack, his first. We found him lying on the kitchen floor, still clutching the brown bag of bagels. He was 72.

The gap is baffling. While wrapped in love and support from family and friends, Gabe and I are still stunned and disbelieving. Much of the love has come from those dozens of people who found a moment of pleasure every morning from his love letter platters.

To announce, the day after Marsh’s passing, that there would be no more fruit plates, this was Elaine’s photo. (Photo: Elaine Durbach)

For them, and to honour my sweetheart, I’m planning to compile a book of those platters. Though others do much more elaborate fruit art, I think his daily wit and creativity, and the way it encouraged others to play with their food, was pretty special, and worth sharing. DM

Elaine Durbach is a former journalist, ex of the Cape Times and the Cape Argus. She wrote the text of two non-fiction books in Cape Town, With Mixed Feelings and South Africa: The Wild Realms (both published by Don Nelson Publishers). As a novelist, she has self-published three books, Roundabout and its sequels, LAF – Life After Felix, and Next Steps. They are all available from Amazon.

Find her novels on Amazon here.

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