My mother was born in Paris but to very provincial Spanish parents. She married my father when she was 23, and he whisked her away to New Jersey to live. Princeton, but still. She had a lot of adjusting to do.
By the time I was born ten years later, you'd think she would have had ample time to acclimate. But, she clung to her old-fashioned, handed-down-by-Spanish- grandmother-ways. She steadfastly refused to succumb to the allure of the Breck Girl... She put lemon juice on my hair to lighten it, olive oil to moisturize it, and vinegar on to detangle it. I went to school smelling like salad.
Lunchtime was equally traumatic. Everyone else had nice, shiny metal lunch boxes bursting with cultural relevancy and advertising. I had a brown paper bag. The over-sized one my mother got from the grocery store. Wrinkled from multiple uses.
Inside the bag was even worse. Other kids had Oscar Meyer bologna and Wonder Bread and Hostess Ho-Hos. I was the one with a liverwurst sandwich on sprouted wheat. Or a Brie sandwich on a hunk of baguette. Or, even more alienating, actual leftovers. Like shrimp tapas. Or gazpacho in an industrial-sized thermos. Again bereft of social currency. Again, alone. I was the girl with the liverwurst sandwich.
Why didn’t my mother know this and protect me from my peers? Why did she want me to be weird? I thought she was doing it to make me miserable and save a penny. Later, it became obvious that she was completely right. She was just ahead of her time. She was recycling and going homemade. She was being conscious about nutrition. When I hit 23, and nowhere near marriage, I thanked her for all of it. Plus, I had a very adventurous palate.
Now, I put lemon juice on my son’s hair. I use almond butter instead of peanut butter, and sheets of toasted seaweed instead of pre-packaged carrots with ranch dressing. But only if he’s comfortable. And he is. And it finally dawned on me why. There is no such thing as weird food anymore. Everybody eats everything. Well, except for maybe sweetbreads, and that will pretty much never change.
FELICITE´S SHRIMP TAPAS
(or as she calls them, “Gambas Vinagreta”)
1lb. cooked, shelled shrimp, tail on.
2 Tb finely chopped shallots
2 gloves garlic, very finely minced or mashed
2 Tb finely chopped parsley (to taste)
2 Tb lemon juice
1/4 cup olive oil
salt
pepper
If using fresh shrimp, boil in the shell in lightly salted water with a pinch of fennel seed for a couple of minutes, or until the shrimp turn pink. Let stand in cooking liquid until cool. Shell and de-vein if necessary. Leave tail on.
Add the rest of the ingredients, correct seasonings, and allow to marinate for at least two hours or overnight.
Serve on a lettuce leaf or in a glass bowl.
Denise Gruska is a screenwriter and author of the recently released children's book The Only Boy In Ballet Class, which was inspired in part by the search for the perfect ballet class for her son.
