Food, Family and Memory

I had one hell of a shower for my first born.  Numerous gifts were given.  I had been to my fair share of showers, both for weddings and babies, and now I wanted a big, fancy one of my own.  Kimme had the best house, so she threw it for me with my other BFF, Kimberly.  Robin made the unforgettable-to-this-day desserts.

Two of the gifts were what seemed at the time like simple, not-too-much-thought-put-into-it gestures.  A white stuffed bear.  And a brown stuffed bear.

By the time Oliver was only a few months old, he clung to those two bears — they had become his best friends, his security bears.   Before the age of one, he would never leave the house without white and brown bear.

I was hired for a small part in a small movie, on location in Texas.  I would be gone a week.  Oliver, white bear, brown bear and I boarded a plane.  I hired some random local girl to watch my baby while I worked on set.  Things went well and I hired her for the following day too.  But when I came back to the hotel, brown bear was missing.  We went into panic mode, though the teenaged girl seemed way relaxed.  I grilled her.  “Where were you when you last saw brown bear?”  She did seem to recall something about the pool area.  It was now evening, dark already and we all went down to comb the pool area.  No brown bear.  As we were about to give up, I looked into the trash and there he was looking very forlorn, ready to take a trip to the local dump.  He would never have been seen again had I not peeked into the trash can.  What a relief.  Separation anxiety averted.

What do you get for the man who has everything, wants nothing, but gets anything he does want for himself? No, it’s not a trick math question; it’s my real life, eternal conundrum.

My husband has worked since his early 20s. He has taken care of his children, his parents, bought homes, cars, and all that he has ever needed. Now it’s his Big Birthday. All that I have to give him is love.

But shouldn’t we do something to mark the occasion? What? Where? A party?

I will give him a name for the sake of this story. Michael. Michael will tell you he has no friends, so no on a party, since there will be no one to invite. He exaggerates. He has some friends. Most of them live in New York. That is where he’s from and where he would like to live. But we live in L.A. He goes to New York whenever he gets the chance. He is a much happier man there. I rarely see him as happy as he is during those few days before leaving to go home to Manhattan. He often tells me he only came to Los Angeles on a business trip. It turned into a very long business trip. One, in which he married, had two kids, divorced, and remarried – me. But, how can I make him happy by moving with him back to New York when all our kids live here in Los Angeles? This is our home.

Months before the Big Day, I began coming up with ideas. “I think I know where we should celebrate your birthday. This is perfect. You want to visit your aunt so – Miami?!?” I didn’t get a big yes on that. I only got an “I’ll think about it.” Moving on, I came up with, “Let’s go to Santa Barbara for a night -- but with all the kids and everyone can have a room in the groovy hotel?” I got another, “I’ll think about it.”

Defining the dress code of the Gents, that was easy….BUT OH, THE DRESS CODE for women…that was serious. Pant suits were just coming in big and the Maitre’D would have none of it. It was here, at the Plaza Hotel, with all the Management taking notes, that I rewrote their dress code with sketches and fabric swatches, as I tried to educate those huffy puffed-up doormen.

I explained carefully to them that they must never allow entrance, if the fabric on the pant suit was the least bit shiny… like Polyester… that was a no no. They liked that, since it left them with some power… Imagine having to make sketches of what a woman could wear to a doorman... Who were we trying please here in this Boys Club of the Oak Room? Why the Mad Men of course! Only linen darling... or flat dry wool or men's tweeds... Oh dear... 

I was raised in a very sheltered household when it came to food.  Sure, we would eat the incredible Italian or Chinese food my father prepared by hand, or feast on amazing French, Japanese, Indian, Greek, Bistro, or Thai cuisines from local restaurants.  I mean, I did grow up in New York.  But I was very cloistered when it came to one cuisine… American.  I was probably 25 before I tasted my first meatloaf.  My father and stepmother were both raised in the suburbs (one in Maryland, one in the Midwest) with very traditional American family fare and it was an unspoken law that that cuisine never would cross their daughter’s lips (or their own ever again).

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I married a man who had been raised on a gaggle of Air Force bases across the south.  The Christmas after we got engaged we visited his grandparents who lived in Florida.  His whole family had flown in from various places across the country, as they did every year.  I had only met the nuclear family and was a little on edge to meet the rest of the herd.  I was a young and outrageous artist and felt a lot of pressure to present myself as relatively normal to my new ultra-conservative family.

The first night we were all gathered in the 1960’s wood paneled eat-in kitchen as Maw Maw (his grandmother) announced we would be having Chuckie Casserole for dinner.  This was met with a great cheer from the crowd.