I wonder how I can write any story about this time without the sex and drugs, but let me try. I first moved into an apartment on Old Malibu Road with my boyfriend. When we split, I moved girlfriend roommates (Wendy, Diana) in and out so I could stay on the beach, but still be able to afford the pad. We partied a lot. But in our own homes. You see, several of us that were friends were scattered across the beach in different places. And we would float from one house to another. A lot.

Friends that would come visit me would wander to one of the boys’ homes and then might not come back until the following day. I’m not saying who or with whom. And I won’t implicate myself except to say– the name Heidi Fleiss comes to mind. Don’t get the wrong idea, I was never paid for my “matchmaking.”

The other friends who had apartments on the same beach I will name. At least, I will give you first names. Billy, Ricci and John.

always a party on my deck!!!

One morning, someone was knocking on my door at the crack of dawn. I answered it very sleepy since I had probably only just nodded off. At the door were these two teenaged girls that I had recently met. They liked me and kind of wanted to be my friend (this is before Facebook), so they dropped acid and slept on the beach outside my house. To this day, those girls are still the best of friends and one of them is one of my closest girlfriends.

I said it would be hard to tell the story without the sex and drugs. I mean most of this time in the 70’s was about sex, drugs and rock and roll, a cliché, but the truth.

Another time capsule moment would be when my friend on too many Quaaludes decided that he needed to carry my extra- heavy redwood chaise lounge down my flight of stairs because he thought he needed to be right on the sand and not on my deck. He and the chair fell the whole way, tumbling over each other and miraculously — maybe because he was “feeling no pain” — got right up and placed the lounge in its proper direction, facing the ocean, and spent the rest of the day crashed out and burning/tanning in the sun.

Ben and Jane, party in 70's for my birthday

My dad used to like to come and hang out on my deck on weekends to “watch the scenery” as he said. Which really just meant, not the waves but the half naked chicks running around the beach.

There was this guy from Hoboken, New Jersey (the word you was always plural, YOOZ) and he lived with one of my girlfriends. Everyone was sort of in awe of him, and by awe, I mean afraid. He was very street. He seemed tough. And, he kind of was. But to me, he was a teddy bear. And he was a little in awe of me, and by awe, I mean respectful. When I would leave town, I would ask them to housesit for me. I needed them to watch my cat Cosmo. I was quite obsessed with my cat. I called him Smush or Kazh (short for Cosmo). The night before I left New Jersey dude in charge of my cat, I told him how to coax Cosmo back in at night. We stepped outside and I called for my cat. In my highest cat whispering voice, I called for Cosmo and hit the side of the can of food with a spoon. I then handed the can to this truly street guy and said, “Okay, now you try it.” He did, but sounded like Tony Soprano. “Hey, Coz, over heeeah!” he would say in a low ghetto voice. “NO, that’s not it, try it again (high-pitched, enticing ) Cozh, Smush, Cosmo.” Suddenly, Al Pacino in “Dog Day Afternoon” started calling my cat. And he was so not going to come to this guy. Me: “Let’s try this again.” It’s now becoming an elocution lesson—think “My Fair Lady.” Finally, he raises his voice an octave “Cozzzzhhhh!” and I say, “YES!!!!! Good job!!!!!” I sort of loved that he kept rehearsing with me. It was so out of character for him to have this little short broad pushing him around.

New Jersey dude with his brother and Italian immigrant parents

Living on Old Malibu Road in the 70’s was something! Sorry you missed it if you were born too late. Condoms were not a big part of our vocabulary like they are for you, the born- too- late crowd.

I would often eat at a restaurant at Cross Creek called Beecher’s Cafe.  They had the MOST amazing pecan pie, served warm with fresh whipped cream.  The restaurant is long gone so I am going to re-post my mother’s pecan pie recipe which is the best in the world!!!!

Evelyn Duke’s Pecan Pie

click twice to enlarge recipe

On second thought, I am adding more food to this story, scroll down to the pecan pie recipe.

John’s Garden.  Right there in the same park area at Cross Creek where Beecher’s Cafe was.  I go there at least twice a month for well over 20 years (can you say creature of habit?.)  I often complain about this way of eating but for some reason here at John’s Garden it works–standing in line, placing an order, waiting for it and eating outside on picnic tables.  I can and do make the sandwich that I order and share with my husband.  Avocado and jack cheese with sprouts on wheat bread.  They are VERY generous with the avocado, you might want to scoop some of it off your sandwich and dunk your potato chips in it.  There are tons of sandwiches and salads to order, all good.  And of course, there is the dude that has been there a lifetime and he will say to you after you pay your bill “You have a nice day now!!!.”

me and my friend Nick, eating lunch at Beecher's Cafe

Pecan Pie recipe

Tommy and Steve on my deck at 254181/2 Old Malibu Road

boys on my deck, people in and out all day and night!!!

I once went to the most spectacular Hollywood funeral ever.  And the love that poured out was well deserved.  We knew her by one name, kind of like Cher or Madonna.  Kaye.  Do you all know whom I’m talking about?  You do if you were lucky enough to grow up in Beverly Hills at that time.  It’s Kaye Coleman, beloved Nate n’ Al’s waitress and star of our collective childhoods.

Although Kaye had her own daughter, she was the unofficial surrogate mother to some of the biggest mothers in Hollywood.  And her “sons” looked after her well.  I’d run into Kaye at the priciest restaurants, dining with her posse of waitress friends, the tab picked up by Lew Wasserman or Bernie Brillstein.  Those two moguls would also send her on European vacations and ocean cruises.  At times, Kaye lived a fancier life than many of her Beverly Hills customers.

Larry King was the emcee of Kaye’s funeral, the only funeral I can think of that had one.  His two Nate n’ Al’s buddies, the ones he eats with everyday, Sid and Bob, gave their own hilarious eulogies.   So funny, that I overheard Suzanne Pleshette — with that happy newlywed look on her face after her surprise marriage to Tom Poston — leaving the funeral saying, “Who knew?  Guess we have to get those two to speak at my funeral.”  Sadly, that day would come too soon (not fair).

Kaye and my dad had their morning routine.  She would greet him by pouring him coffee and sassing him before he could her.  They had a rhythm like an old married couple.   She would go in back and personally scoop out his onion bagel, treating Maurice Duke as though he were Lew Wasserman.  Then she’d give his entourage some shit about never picking up their own bills or leaving a big enough tip.  If my dad were ever sick at home (rare), Kaye might bring him chicken in a pot.  And when he died, she and the other waitresses stayed behind at my father’s apartment building, setting up the free Nate n Al’s spread, donated because of all his years of patronage.  As a result, Kaye and her friends missed the outpouring of love from wonderful comics like Red Buttons telling uproarious Maurice Duke stories.  That’s how selfless Kaye was.    (Note: Duke would not have been pleased to know that Morey Amsterdam’s competing funeral that morning would drain of some of the less loyal comic talent.)

At her own send-off, Kaye’s girlfriends, daughter, friends, celeb friends, everyone would witness the love in eulogy after eulogy.  Then on to the Friars Club went 500 of Kaye’s closest friends.  And they ate.  And ate.  It could have been one of the highest budgeted funerals of all time.  Shecky Greene did a private stand-up for my daughter and me – a 10-minute rap about my dad, off the top of his head, everything rhyming perfectly, a genius routine.  It made me and Augie laugh and cry.  Then everyone went off to a new life, one without our much-loved Kaye.  Like the rock star she was, her framed uniform hung on the wall of the deli for years.

For a few years after my father died, I would walk into Nate n’ Al’s, look towards my father’s old booth and cry.  Kaye would actually yell at me and tell me to come back when I could handle it.  I tried but I really just stopped eating there.  I do occasionally stop in to see her friend Gloria.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to thank Kaye for her nurturing of all of us — and that includes her volunteer work for the terminally ill at Cedars.  One of the things Kaye was most famous for was designing the bagel on a string.  All of our children delighted in teething on those bagels.  Beverly Hills is not the same, Nate n’ Al’s is not the same, and the world is just not the same without Kaye Coleman.

Tag: After I wrote this story and it was published in One for the Table, I found out that a very close friend got married under Kaye’s framed uniform. Actually Ben and Meilani really got married in Italy and then a minister (Gabriel Ferrer) made it legal right there in Nate’s. Had I known, I would have fit this bit into my story!!!! Mazel Tov Ben and Meilani!!!!

Ben and Meilani Weiss, ceremony with Kaye's uniform as a witness!!!

Enjoy two clips I made of the famous waitresses, Gloria and Kaye.

birthday party at Nates for Maurice Duke, with Alan and Fredde Duke, 1973

I have a very good friend and we have done everything at exactly the same time.  Three kids.  Divorce.  New Marriage.  Always within a year of each other and always there for each other.  When we were in our single lives, raising kids alone, we would often have family meals at one of our homes with all the kids.  We had each other’s back.

Our first-born sons were the best of friends.  They were artists and did not necessarily fit in with the other sporty boys.  My husband once said about them, “Are you sure they didn’t once walk through a toxic fog together?”  We still laugh about that.  Sometimes we would think it was a brilliant idea to “mainstream” the boys by sending them on YMCA camping trips to the mountains.  They would come back coated black from dirt, stunned, as if we had sent them off to an inmate labor program.  Unlike all of our other kids who would return from these excursions so happy, laughing with a pack of new friends they’d made, these two were miserable.

Taylor on left, his brother Ry, center, Oliver on right

When Taylor, my friend Cathy’s son, was a teenager, he ran off with a homeless, drugged-out crowd on Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade.  These were hardcore runaways; a scary-looking posse of skinheads & lost kids.  We could not believe this new turn of events.  I held my breath, hoping Taylor would find his way back home quickly, but it wasn’t happening.  A year went by.  My girlfriend happens to be one of the strongest people I know yet this was testing her.   Weeks or even months might go by where she had not heard from him.  A phase was turning into a lifestyle for Taylor.

On a day in early May during Taylor’s lost years, I sent my son Oliver on a mission: “Oliver, you need to go to the promenade and find Taylor.”  This was before they were driving.  Also before cell phones.  Oliver hopped on a bus and started his search.  I got a payphone call saying he was having no luck.  “Keep looking, this is VERY important!!!!”  These homeless kids on the promenade – gutter rats is what they were called — were like vampires, up all night.  Who knows where they hung out during the day when Oliver was hunting for them.  “Don’t give up,” I said, “It’s Mother’s Day and I really want to give Cathy this gift of knowing Taylor is okay.”

Oliver didn’t give up and he finally found his childhood friend.  Not sure Taylor, now with a vacant look in his eyes, was happy to be found; he was a reluctant hostage, but Oliver managed to pull him to a phone booth.   Then when Oliver dialed Cathy’s number (collect), Taylor backed away from the phone.  Oliver convinced him to get back on, and for one second Taylor did – so, Cathy finally got to hear his voice, and for that one Mothers Day, rest easy.

me on left pregnant with Oliver, Cathy, pregnant with Taylor

Now, I will update you on the happy ending to this story.  Taylor hit rock bottom and got himself into a rehab.  Then from rehab into sober living.  He is a complete success story.  He works the program (AA) and has become a motivational speaker at meetings.  Presently he lives in Thailand and is studying to become a masseur.  By the way, he is a brilliant writer and I hope one day he tells the whole tale of how he ended up on the street and ultimately made his way back.  Each year Oliver calls or e-mails Taylor on his birthday.  The boys were born about a month apart, 29 years ago.  Oliver was actually my very first Mother’s Day gift, as he was born on Mother’s Day, May 8, 1983.  Happy Birthday to Oliver this week — and thanks for hunting down your friend all those years ago.

In the early 70′s, I went often with my dad to one of my favorite restaurants, Chez Puce.  This was a homey little red checked table-clothed place with AMAZING French crepes.  When our kids were first born, in 1983, Chez Puce had moved from Lincoln and Pico to a temporary spot in the Mayfair Theater building near the Third Street Promenade.  We went there with our new born sons Oliver and Taylor.  Soon after, my favorite restaurant closed it’s doors forever and I long to have one of those crepes.  Jeff (father of Taylor) if you’re reading; Chez Puce is not an octopus!!!! That was just some random line written on the front of the menu and on the wall of the crepe joint.  I found this recipe online so I will not swear by it.  The one I would order was a mushroom crepe.  Just to let you know, I did just have a great mushroom crepe at L’Epiceire Market/Restaurant in Culver City.  So, you can go there and order one for yourself.  Or make this!!!

California Asparagus and Mushroom Filled Crepes
Makes
12-15 crepes
1 pound fresh California asparagus, ends trimmed
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
8 ounces button mushrooms, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 small yellow onion
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3/4 cup chicken or vegetable stock
1/4 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup Gruyere cheese
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
8 savory crepes (purchased or use the recipe at the bottom)
1/2 cup grated Gruyere cheese, for topping
Savory Crepes

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
3 large eggs
1 cup milk
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Additional unsalted butter for frying

Methods/steps
Crepes: In a medium bowl, combine the flour and salt; whisk to combine. Make a well in the center of the flour and add the eggs; whisk just the eggs until thoroughly mixed. Slowly and steadily whisk in a little more than half of the milk, while incorporating more and more of the flour from the edges into the batter. (If you add all the liquid at once, the batter will be hard to mix and lumpy.) Once you have incorporated all of the flour, whisk in the melted butter and enough of the remaining milk to make a batter the consistency of heavy cream. Let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes or cover and refrigerate overnight. If you refrigerated the batter, bring to room temperature before proceeding – you may need to add a bit more milk to the batter if it has thickened too much overnight.

Heat a traditional, seasoned, steel crepe pan or 8-inch non-stick sauté pan over medium high heat. Using a pastry brush or paper towel, brush or wipe the pan with a thin film of the melted butter. Add a scant ¼ cup of batter and immediately rotate the pan, lifting it off the heat, so that the batter swirls and forms a thin even layer over the surface of the pan. Place the pan back on the burner and cook until it just begins to brown underneath and the top surface looks set, about 1 minute. Using the edge of a spatula, loosen the edge of the crepe from the pan and flip (your fingers work best at this point!) Cook just until browned lightly,
about 1 minute. Transfer the crepe to a plate. Repeat with the remaining batter — stacking the crepes directly on top of one another when cooked. Crepes will keep tightly wrapped in the refrigerator for 3 days, or frozen for 1 month. Let frozen crepes come to room temperature before separating from the stack.

Filling: Bring a large sauté pan of salted water to a boil over high heat. Add the asparagus and cook until tender crisp, about 2 minutes. Transfer the asparagus to a colander, refresh under cold running water to stop the cooking, and drain well. Set aside.

In a medium sauté pan, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter over medium high heat. Add the mushrooms and cook until the moisture they release has evaporated and the mushrooms are golden brown. Set aside.

In a medium saucepan, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter over medium high heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the flour and cook, stirring, until light golden brown, about 2 minutes. Add the stock; bring to a boil, stirring briskly, and cook until thickened,
about 1 minute. Remove from the heat. Add the cream and ¼ cup Gruyere cheese, whisk until smooth. Season to taste with salt and pepper; set aside.

To assemble crepes: Place 2 tablespoons of the cheese sauce down the center of a crepe and top with a spoonful of the cooked mushrooms. Arrange 3 asparagus spears down the center of the crepe so that the tips extend just beyond the edge of the crepe. Roll up and place, seam side down, in the prepared baking dish. Repeat with the remaining crepes, sauce and filling. The crepes should fit snuggly in the dish. Sprinkle the remaining ½ cup grated Gruyere over the tops of the rolled crepes.
Bake, uncovered, until the crepes are warmed through and the cheese has melted, about 12-15 minutes. If you prefer a browner top, place under a heated broiler just until golden brown. Serve immediately.

It’s entirely possible I had some learning problems.  Or did I?  I got by in school, barely.  School was never inspiring except during recess and lunch.  For me, it was all about being social.  In fact, I don’t think I ever stopped talking while in my classes.  Math and Science really threw me.  They both still do.  They are like a foreign language.  I got by though and my report cards usually were all B’s, C’s, or even some D’s, and always an A in PE.  I almost got an F once in Dunker the Flunker’s second grade math class and that is when my mom when into full-blown protect-her-child-mode.  She showed up at school with the results of my IQ test to prove… not sure what?  But, it worked.  Then in high school, I actually did get an F and it was in a filmmaking class.  Again, my mother showed up at school to fight that grade.  This time, she lost. You get the idea; I maintained a strong C-plus average.  Hey, I didn’t know I was there to learn.  I assumed I was there to sharpen my already A-plus social skills.

me and Mr. Poole at his New Jersey school in 70's

And then one fine day, when we were starting the sixth grade, a new teacher came to town.  His name was so unusual, as was he.  Harbison Poole.  To write or say his name brings a smile to my face and a flood of wonderful memories to mind.

To be one of the lucky ones to land in his homeroom class was a coup.  I have my entire life been a hysteric.  You can ask me what someone looks like and I will not be able to tell you.  I get the essence of the person.  I don’t look closely at the details.  If someone is, let’s say, unattractive but charismatic, they are gorgeous to me.  Like, my dad.  And, I’m thinking, like Mr. Poole.  He was chinless and, I guess, somewhat homely.  But to me, as to the rest of his class, he was so compelling he was stunning.

There was not a student that didn’t love him.  He inspired us to do our best.  Suddenly, I was more apt to pay attention in the classroom.  He didn’t seem so bothered when, and if, I was chatting with my neighbor.  Every other teacher wrote copious notes home about my incessant talking each Report Card Friday.  Those were miserable days for me, but not with Mr. Poole.  This might have been the only time in the history of my education where it wasn’t only the top students who were teacher’s pet.  We all were.  Harbison Poole had the ability to make each and every one of us feel special.  Then he hatched a plan in which anyone who wanted could join his new after school club dedicated to creative writing.  Do you think I’m the after school club type?  I’m not!!!  We got to decide what it would be called and collectively we came up with the WORDS Club.  It was an acronym — and, no, I do not remember what each letter stood for — but I’m hoping one of my old friends will post a comment to explain.  Sorry, as you can see, I’m not that interested in research.

So, on Thursdays (I just made that up, but I might be right) we stayed after and shared creative writing.  I was feeling very good about myself that year, though it wouldn’t last long.  The school system was in a panic over Mr. Poole’s style of teaching and how deeply he affected us kids.  They moved him the following year to Hawthorne, a nearby school in the district, where others got to fall madly in love and have one great year with him.  Then, they tossed him for good.  He was just too ahead of his time.

I remember that there was another inspiring, original teacher in my sophomore year of high school, Emanuel Lombard.  Sitting in his classroom one day, I saw Mr. Peters, the superintendent, checking Lombard out.  I sensed danger.  Like Mr. Poole, he was very advanced in his style of teaching.  I stood up, walked over to Peters and accused him of trying to do it again — getting rid of a great teacher.  Big mouth that I could be.

In my early-to-mid 20’s, I became obsessed with finding my old teacher Mr. Poole.  I called the Beverly Hills school system, which claimed to not know what happened to him after his short Hawthorne reign.  Finally, my brother told me I could hire a skip tracer (whatever that is) and he hired one.  I paid the guy $35 dollars and in less than a week, they found my idol, Harbison Poole.  I was told he was the principal of a progressive school he started in New Jersey.  I made my reservation and flew out on the next flight.  A red-eye.  My friend Barbara, a real trouper, picked me up at the airport at 6 AM and off we drove to New Jersey.  I walked into the school very early pretending to look for a teaching job.  I asked for an appointment with Mr. Poole.  I sat across from him and feigned looking for a job.  I was waiting for just the right moment for the big reveal.  I really wanted it to be a powerful surprise.  He kept looking at me and telling me I look familiar.  Mind you, I was on some TV commercials at the time so that could have been why.  But, I like to believe it was because he did remember me.  I was carrying my classroom photo from back in the day.  When I found the right moment, which was when he kept insisting I looked familiar, I pulled out the photos and said, “Maybe this is why.”  Ta-dah!!!!  “Because Mr. Poole, I’m Fredde Duke and you were my beloved teacher in the 6th grade at Beverly Vista.  We LOVED you!!!  You inspired us and I have needed to tell you this for a long time.  And by the way, fuck the Beverly Hills school system for not getting you.”  We hugged, went to lunch, and were best friends for a day.  I reminded him that he was such a rock star to us that we girls would link hands, ten across, during lunches and recesses, to sing a song we wrote about him (changing the lyrics of “Harvest Moon”): Shine on, Shine on Harbison Poole…

All my life, when I heard this song, I think of Mr. Poole, even though we were not an unruly bunch!

having fun with Harbison Poole!!!

I tried to find out what my friend Roland’s favorite restaurant in New Jersey is and I will post that one also.  In the meantime, I found this online in Zagat and now I really want to go here.

Saddle River Inn
2 Barnstable Ct., Saddle River; 201-825-4016
Food: 28
Decor: 25
Service: 26
Price: $64
“Superb from beginning to end”, this “gold-standard”, “big-ticket” grande dame is set in a “casually elegant” 18th-century barn in Saddle River, where “impeccable” Franco-American preparations emerge from the “steady” kitchen; “serious” service and an “inviting” atmosphere burnish the “world-class” experience, and while it certainly “doesn’t come cheap”, BYO allows one to “indulge more than usual.”

So fitting that Roland just told me about these Diner’s in New Jersey–because the last time I saw Roland, we were eating at a Diner in Manhattan!!!

this is only part of Roland Hutchinson’s reply : Well, Fredde, as you know, I’m no foodie, but I do like to eat.

One of my favorite dishes is the Greek-style lamb shanks, braised in a
tomato sauce and served over orzo, available Sundays at the Six Brothers
Diner. Just a tick or two further upscale, there’s a Greek café/bistro
sort of place that does a similar dish, and that has terrific sea food.
That’s sort of our default for going out on a slightly festive occasion;
the diners are where we go for a convenient everyday meal when we’d
rather not eat at home.

me with childhood friend Roland Hutchinson at a Diner in Manhattan

Some days are just harder than others.

Today I’m listening to my favorite Bruce Springsteen songs.

I had the Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town album’s in the 70’s and I would play them over and over in my dad’s apartment.  I would watch his foot, the one that was attached to his brace start to move to the beat of the music.  One day, he said “Who is this guy, he’s very talented”.  “Bruce Springsteen Dad, isn’t he great?”

Some days are just harder for me.

I miss sharing the love of music.  I miss sharing the love of food.  I miss sharing the love of people.  I miss my dad!

My dad played the harmonica.  So did the Boss.

The last night I went out with my dad was when we met at the House of Blues.  His friends, the Gittlesohns invited him.  They told him there would be this harmonica player performing. Everyone was saying this guy was great.    The guy hadn’t gone on stage and it was going on midnight.  I bailed.  My father, at age 85 stayed out until he saw the guy perform.  Ever the hard core music supporter and enthusiast, he wasn’t home until nearly 2 AM.  That night at the House of Blues, I wore this tight gold dress.  My father said he loved my dress.

My dad was gearing up and very excited about a pitch meeting he had.  He wanted to produce a music special that would be all harmonica oriented.  It would have the biggest names in music stars that play the harp.  Bob Dylan.  Neil Young.  Stevie Wonder.  Toots Thielemans.  Larry Adler.  Mick Jagger.  And of course Bruce Springsteen.

My dad suddenly had a heart attack.  He was critically ill in the hospital.  I refused to believe he was dying.  We put that meeting on hold.

After a long twelve week battle, my dad, lover of all music and all people everywhere, died.  I wore that same gold dress to his funeral.

Some days are just harder than others.

A few weeks later, even in my grief stricken state, I called CBS to reschedule that meeting.  I would go in place of my dad.  I hoped to produce the show of his dreams for him.

Unlike my gutsy dad, I stink at pitching.  I came equipped with books and harmonica’s and tried and maybe did succeed in getting across my father’s enthusiasm for this project.  I also sobbed through the whole meeting.  Sobbed. The wound was too fresh.  I could barely contain myself long enough to get any articulate thought out.  But, here is what happened.  I wasn’t turned down.  The project would later die, like most show business projects.  But Terry, the man I pitched to called a big time producer of music specials, Ken Ehrilich and sent me to his house in Encino to try and entice him into joining forces.  My father would have seen this turn of events as being in pre-production. He would have told me and everyone that the music special was green-lit. That is how he saw life.

Today was a hard one. I miss my dad.

Listen below to a song that my dad’s Vaudeville band the Cappy Bara Boys are playing harmonica.

My dad went anywhere, anytime to hear great music.  Someone told me he once went to that famous church, First AME Church in downtown Los Angeles to hear gospel music.  I love it!!! One place I never went but really want to go for their Sunday Gospel Brunch is House of Blues.  And, they offer a whole southern meal, like Fried Chicken, Biscuits and Gravy, homemade Waffles with Fresh Berries and Whipped Cream and Cajun Meatloaf with Mushroom Gravy.  Who is coming with me?

on the set of Lohman and Barkley, a show my dad produced

From left: Billy Vera, Alan and Kris Duke, Rita Coolidge

I cannot trace the exact moment, but somehow we started off on the wrong foot.  And like a big wave, our discontent swelled over time, neither of us knowing the origin of it.  We had both dug our heels in the sand.

When my sister-in-law, Kris, turned the big 4-0, my brother threw her a party.  A really big one.  Kris had always been a fan of Rita Coolidge, so naturally, Alan booked Rita for a private concert to honor his wife.  He went all out.

As the big day approached, my one-day-to-be-husband urged, “You should really get along with Kris.”  I agreed.  I thought it was time to bury the hatchet.

So I did.

I went to a hardware store and bought a hatchet.  I also purchased a beautiful gift bag that I filled with sand.  Actually, cat litter.  Where else can you get sand?  And I buried that hatchet.

Kris (sister-in-law) on left, me, Alan, my brother on right, late 70's or early 80's

In every way my brother and his wife have a loving, happily functioning relationship.  A relationship to envy.  Alan made it a point not to follow in our family’s dysfunctional footsteps.  Lots of steps and walking in this story.  And sand.

When Kris returned home that night, she opened her gifts.  She gasped when she came to mine because she had not read the little card first.  She reached into the sand and found a deadly weapon.  Stunned, she pulled her hand back, turned to my brother Alan and said, “Your sister sent me something really scary”.

Finally, she read the card.  It’s time to bury the hatchet.

That changed everything!  I’m kidding.  Nothing changed.  Except now she was convinced I was nuts.  We kept our distance.

Then one day Kris and Alan found a cat.

I watched Kris fall madly in love with it.  They named her Dinah, thinking it was a girl, till the vet discovered the error, so they changed its name to Dinah-mite.  (Sorry, I know that most of my stories somehow segue into cats.)  But watching Kris fall so hard made me fall for her.  That’s when the whole thing turned around for me.  We shared the love-of-feline gene.  I would visit more often and now we were much more than civil.  We were sisters.

I regret all the lost years, because our kids are the same ages and the cousins missed out on those close cousin friendships.  But they all do love each other.  Alan and Kris raised two of the most amazing people.  They are good-looking, smart, funny, they get me, and oh, yes, they love cats.

family celebrating our dad, Alan, me Michael and Erica Duke, Kris, Mike (husband)

On the night of Kris’s birthday, Billy Vera also performed.  We were introduced and he was already an old friend of my future husband, Michael.  I now invite Billy to my own birthday parties or other functions.  He actually blew us away when he came and performed at my husbands 60′th birthday party.  You can see Billy, an amazing talent when he plays at Vitello’s in the San Fernando Valley at times or find a website for his other gigs.   Enjoy this Billy Vera Song. 

me with Billy Vera!!!

Enjoy this recipe from my beautiful sister-in-law for pumpkin bread.  When my brother eats the meals his wife cooks, he still kvells after all these years over the food and the chick he landed.  I’m so sorry our parents didn’t live to see the turn of events, that Kris and I are friends and sistas!!!!! Oh and Happy Birthday Alan, this blog’s for you!!!

Kris Duke’s Pumpkin Bread

2/3 cup shortening   1/2 teaspoon baking soda

2 3/3 cup sugar   1 1/2 teaspoon salt

3 eggs   1 teaspoon cloves

1 lb. can pumpkin   1 teaspoon cinnamon

2/3 cup water   1 teaspoon nutmeg

3 1/3 cup flour   2/3 cup chopped dates

2/3 cup chopped nuts

Sift flour, baking powder, soda, salt and spices.  Cream shortening and sugar, add eggs, then pumpkin and water.  Gradually add sifted mixture.  Stir in nuts and dates.  Bake in two greased loaf pans at 350 degrees for one hour.

Enjoy this Rita Coolidge song. 

Dinah-mite RIP

When I first met my husband, I told him that I’m part Native American.  I’m also half Jewish.  This is when he said to me “ You don’t live on a reservation…you make them”.

I’m sorry, you will not be able to make a reservation at Wolf in Sheeps Clothing, a new pop up restaurant on Abbott Kinney.  Well, I mean you can if you are a party of 6 or more.  Since I am a huge micro-manager, my suggestion is to go, leave your name if there is a wait and walk around going in and out of the great stores.  They will even call you when your table is ready.

Sign on for Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

It’s rare that I’m blown away by a restaurant.  And I have become the town crier about this one.  Which is funny because the woman who once coined me the town crier since I just like to share all my finds– is the one that called me late one night, sated, having to tell me every detail of her experience.  She mentioned that they only serve beer, wine and water and I chose to ignore hearing this.  So, the very next evening when I dragged my husband to an early dinner there, I tried, but failed in ordering my iced tea.   The waitress informed us that once they get their permanent location, they will serve tea and coffee.  I asked if anyone would object to me running out to fetch a drink.  I came back quickly with my iced tea.  I was already in love with the whole casual atmosphere and attitude of the place and of the staff. Nothing like the snooty wait staff at some of the other restaurants on the block. No, I’m not naming which one (you know who you are).   The tablecloths and cutlery (mismatched) are sort of shabby chic meets French Country.  I love the ghetto/strike of genius art work.  Like the sign out in front by (local) artist, Lacey Cowden that drew the wolf and the title of the restaurant is on it, drawn on a piece of torn off  butcher paper.  They say it gets stolen weekly, so the owners just keep putting another one back up.  Now, they have added some vintage suit cases right in front of the restaurant.   Other doodles adorn the walls on torn off paper.   It’s just so cool, like all of Abbott Kinney.

Then we hunkered down and did some ordering.  They had me at smoked rainbow trout, avocado toast, herb salad and egg.  The toast had the avocado spread on it and in an old mason jar was the smoked rainbow trout.  It and almost all dishes are served on a wood tray, like a cutting board.  In the center was the herb salad and sliced hard boiled egg.  Not sure why, instinct kicked in and I didn’t ask how to eat this dish, I just picked up a piece of the toast and spread the trout and topped it with a slice of egg.  I’ve gone back several times and tried many dishes and in fact just had this dish a few nights ago and writing about it is making me so happy with sense memory.  Okay, onto the next one that we inhaled.  Marinated anchovy with soft bread.  Wonderful anchovies are drenched in olive oil with slivered garlic and they serve it with this warm, fresh out of the oven bread.  Amazing.   Gone in about a minute.  And on that first trip to Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, we shared the Hanger Steak with hen of the woods mushrooms.  On other trips, we have had quite possibly the best sand dabs I’ve ever had in Los Angeles, served with hedgehog mushrooms in an almond brown butter and lemon sauce.  It is sort of like an almondine sauce, so good you want to lick the plate.  My step- son fell so in love with the baked oysters with creamed collard greens and bacon, he just kept reordering.  And one time I had something that I’m just not sure anyone in California can get their brain behind because everyone is so health conscious.  An appetizer of just fried chicken skin.  Seriously, just the skin.  And that is all I ever want when I order fried chicken so I cannot tell you what a happy person I was eating that dish.   I’m not going to go on any more about the dishes I have loved because in fact they are changing their menu often.  I will say this, I’ve never had anything I didn’t like.  Alright one more dish, the kale salad is the best in town.  The kale salad has sheeps cheese, pink lady apple, date and a walnut vinaigrette.

sign on bathroom door, hilarious!!!!

Brian Dunsmoor (Axe, Hungry Cat) and Kris Tominaga (Joe’s Restaurant) are the chef/owners who came up with the concept behind this new fabulous restaurant.   So clever.  So original.  Oh, forgot to mention, so affordable!

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves (Matt. 7:15).

Nah, go ahead, get ravenous!

eating at Wolf in Sheep's Clothing with friends Joy Horowitz and Amy Spies

This is the eulogy that I wrote for my friend Laurie.    I don’t love public speaking and in the end, I chickened out.  At the time, I did send it to Laurie’s parents.  I am sharing it here on my blog with you in honor of my old friend’s birthday, April 4’th.  And because I know Laurie Susan would have really enjoyed and been supportive of my blog.

Hello, I’m Fredde Duke.  Laurie called me her B.F.  Best Friend.  I first laid eyes on Laurie in High School, the year was 1970 and she and her then B.F., Carrie Fisher had just gotten these disastrous haircuts.  They were profoundly ashamed, and actually spent some days not even bothering to come to school to save face.  Those haircuts were in fact, probably the very first shags.  Since both Carrie and Laurie couldn’t bear to be “seen”, they went out and bought these very sort of Ali MacGraw-Love Story knit hats to cover their heads and I thought they were just the most stunning, stylish girls, so I just had to get to know them.

the infamous shag

I went out to breakfast with them one school morning at Nibblers.  They were only 14 years old and already ditching school.  I was impressed.  I myself hadn’t starting doing this until at least 15.  I was a senior and our paths didn’t cross again for some years.

I had the “happening” pad on the beach.  Laurie Sue (what she liked to be called) would often come to visit.  Sometimes she would be gone for hours, she had wondered down the road to Ricci’s (Martin) and she would usually reappear.  But, not always.

What we really ended up bonding over was the most important thing in Laurie Sue’s life and that was the love she had for her parents.  We both had friends and animals and boyfriends and eventually I had kids, but the person I loved the most was my dad (besides my kids), and she loved her parents Adele and Jerry.  We would talk endlessly over the years about the fear.  What would it be like to lose our parents?  We would invariably end up working ourselves into floods of tears.  Just the thought of the loss.  These conversations took place a lot!  And then, I really lost my parents.  It was devastating and Laurie was a constant support.  She never got tired of asking me questions about their last moments.  She was obsessed.  She needed to know everything.

from left, bottom, Gina, Ricci, Todd, Laurie, back row, Debby and Donna

Okay, I’ll stop with this dark subject.  This is so unexpected and not fair.  What I am really saying is that Laurie Sue had this enthusiasm for all subjects.  She would ask endless amounts of questions about my kids.  About Michael, my husband.  Sometimes the enthusiasm exhausted me.  I would be drained from answering, but she wanted to go on listening for more hours.

Lately we just laughed at ourselves for becoming “Old Jews”.

The thing I think we all remember about Laurie are her eternally generous terms of endearment.  She always ended an e-mail or conversations with I love you.  Or she might call you Baby-Cakes.  But, always, always ending with the words I love you.

I am so not the lovey dovey, hugging, type.  I’m not sure I ever told Laurie Sue that I loved her back.  I know that she knew I did and that I didn’t need to say the words out loud.  I would like very much to take that opportunity today and say in front of all of you—I love you Laurie Susan White.

Laurie went hard core hiking on this red rock...I trailed behind!!!

Laurie lived just steps away from Owens Market, on the corner of Pico and Roxbury.  She would often pick herself up a steak from the amazing meat department.  Pretty sure she knew the guys name.  I don’t remember his name but that I would often pick up these amazing lamb chops when I lived near there.  And, I am a real fan of this small market.  Laurie Sue would call me and tell me about the dinner she would make herself of a baked potato and a perfectly cooked steak.

I went on a vacation once with Laurie to Sedona, Arizona and though I have no recollection if we ate here or not, in honor of that trip and Laurie’s love of steak, I would like to recommend the Cowboy Club where they serve everything from Buffalo Burgers to Cactus Fries.  They serve Green Chile Rattlesnake Meatballs.  Lots of steaks to choose from in honor of Laurie.

I was in my early 20’s.  I had been invited to Dean Martin’s daughter’s Halloween party.  Yes, at her father’s house.  A big ass Beverly Hills home.  I planned to be Elton John.  The girls — Gina and Donna — who had invited me to the party were very close with Shaun Cassidy, and I was told Shaun owned Ziggy Stardust-style silver lame’ rock & roll boots.  I didn’t know him or what size shoe he wore, but I boldly called and asked to borrow them: “Hi, I’m Fredde Duke, you don’t know me but….”

I picked up the rock & roll boots at his mother’s house on North Oakhurst.  Found it on my Map to the Stars’ Homes.  Kidding.  I enlisted the wardrobe department where my dad had a studio deal to write “Elton John” in a sequined signature on the back of my satin, emerald-green man’s coat.  A friend worked for Bernie Taupin and Elton at Rocket Records, and he gave me a stack of unsigned Elton John headshots.  At the toy store on Beverly Drive, I bought a child’s baby grand piano.  By now I’m realizing it would have been a lot easier to go as Pat Boone.  Then I scored a man’s wig in Hollywood, but cut it at the crown to make me look like I was balding.  The piece de resistance was the blacked out Elton gap tooth.  Voila, I was suddenly a gay rock star!!!

Shaun and Miguel (the sheik)

I couldn’t drive with those silver lame’ boots, so I asked my brother to chauffeur me to the party in costume.  The piano weighed a ton, was I kidding?  I played for people all night and gave out fake autographs.  Later that same Halloween night, I found myself in the back of a taxi with a guy I met at the party dressed as a sheik.  He would become my next boyfriend.  In Beverly Hills today, you’re more apt to meet a real one.

Very recently I saw Shaun Cassidy and his wife interviewed on some show.  It was filmed at their house.  In the interview, his wife talked about the silver lame’ boots that he still owns. The camera took a peek in into the closet where he keeps them.   And I thought, hey, I wore those once.  And how sweet and trusting was he to do that for me when he had no idea who I even was.  Oh, and how ballsy was it of me to call him and ask!

Flashback to several years after the Halloween party.  By now, Shaun and I are kind of friends.  He briefly dated my girlfriend.  The sheik and I set them up, we all went to each other parties.  And now I hear that he and his wife are going through a divorce.  At the time, I lived in an apartment in Beverly Hills and there was a single girl named Edie who lived in the same building.  She had a remarkable personality.  So special.  She reminded me of a young Julia Roberts.  The Julia Roberts from “Mystic Pizza,” with a slight Southern twang.  I barely knew her but I really thought this could be a match.  (Years earlier, I had introduced his brother Patrick to his high school sweetheart, the girl who later became his first wife.)  I heard Shaun was staying at his mom’s on Oakhurst, so I got her number from a mutual friend.

Gina, Shaun and Miguel

A man answered the phone and I asked for Shaun.  Right off the bat, he started screaming at me, accusing me of being a fan.  I tried to object as he grilled me, never listening to my answers, about whether I was or wasn’t a “real” friend of Shaun’s.  When I say this guy was mean, it’s not even close.  He was wicked, possibly psychotic, and totally out of control.  The details of his cruel and hostile diatribe I have selectively, and thankfully, forgotten.  I was shaking and crying.  I called our mutual friend back and he said, “Oops, forgot to warn you about nasty stepdad.”  He assured me that this is the way “dad” always answers the phone, he does it to everyone.  “Are you kidding???!!!!!”  A former smalltime comic and bully, he was so clearly envious of his stepson’s fame.  Had I known, I doubt I would have made that call.  And, I never called back.  Shaun, who is handsome, smart, funny and successful, has never had a problem meeting women.  He would have to do without Edie.

Time cut, now to a few years ago.  I went to my friend’s dad’s memorial.  Tons of celebs got up to speak about the deceased.  One person that spoke was Shaun’s lovely mother.  Her husband, Mr. Warmth, sat in the audience and heckled people, every bit as nasty as he was years earlier on the phone.  Somehow there was a moment afterwards where I was introduced to Shaun’s mom and I said, “I’m so happy to meet you … and I want you to know you did such a great job raising those boys … I know and love them all.”  She smiled, proud.  I went on.  “But, your husband?  BIG PRICK!!!.”  Then I fled quickly, not waiting for a reaction.

Around the time that the step-dad was a prick to me, I heard that he bought one of my favorite chocolate candy stores in Beverly Hills, Edelweiss.  I’ve gone there for years but during his reign, I boycotted the store.  Doubt they noticed but as soon as I heard another person took ownership, I was back.  I love the milk chocolate covered honeycomb, both the thin and that thicker ones.  I also always have to get some light chocolate covered turtles.  Everything there is great and now they are also in the Brentwood Mart.

The sheik and I would often eat at Musso and Franks in Hollywood and I already put the recipe for the flannel cakes on my blog but here it is again.  They are well worth a trip there but go before 3:00, that is when they stop serving them.

Musso and Franks Flannel Cakes

Active Work and Total Preparation Time: 20 Minutes

6 eggs

2 cups milk

1 tablespoon oil

Salt

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup pastry flour

1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons sugar

* Beat eggs, milk, oil and pinch of salt in bowl. Add all-purpose flour and pastry flour and mix well. Add vanilla and sugar and mix well.

* Pour 1/3 cup batter per cake onto greased skillet and cook over medium heat until golden brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Turn and cook until golden brown on other side, 2 to 3 minutes.

me and the sheik, playing western "dress up"

Shaun, Miguel (back row) David, Gabri (front)

I don’t want to sound mean.  Because I’m not.  That said, I would sometimes ask my dad who this guy was or that guy.  It would be a random dude that let’s say was always hanging around Jan Murray or Red Buttons.  Sorry I’m not coming up with bigger names, but these were big names in my world.  I guess I could say Frank.  We’ll get back to Frank.

My dad would answer, “He’s a WITH.”  And I will now explain what he explained to me because by this time in life, I knew what a “WITH” was.  It’s a full-time, unpaid career of being best friends with someone famous. The prerequisite is that you usually did not have a real job and you just sort of hung around with someone.  If you’ve seen “Entourage,” it’s sort of the modern day version.  Okay, getting back to Frank, I have one name.  Jilly.  I’ll say no more.

Duke, my dad, had a way of getting his friends, in between wives and with no place to stay, to move in and help take care of him.  (If you’re new to my blog, he was handicapped as a result of childhood polio.)  Mostly, they were friends with lives and jobs and it would only last for a short period.  And then one day Tony moved in.  Was Tony my dad’s WITH?  Maybe.  Although I’m not sure it counts if you’re not with someone famous.  And Duke was not famous.  His friend Mickey Hayes had a “WITH” and he wasn’t famous, so yes you can have one regardless.  But Mickey had a ton of money.  Duke was neither famous nor rich.  Being my dad’s with was more like being butler to a poor man.

Tony drove from the day he moved into the Churchill (on Wilshire) with my dad.  Drove him everywhere.  To breakfast at Nate’s each morning, then down the street to his office on South Beverly Drive.  Then home and out to dinner later with a group.  My dad always had an entourage.  His group of friends were very successful; the president of CBS, producers, writers and top PR agents.  And Tony.

On nights that my dad wasn’t meeting his posse, Tony would cook up a storm.  And he wasn’t bad.  When the group caught wind that Tony could cook, they would all show up for a free meal.  Very Sopranos.  Tony was significantly younger than Duke, but suffered from diabetes.  One day he got on some new health kick and bought himself a very expensive juicer.  He was juicing it up all the time, to the exclusion of any real food.  One morning, my dad woke up like any other day and yelled to the other room for Tony to come help him with his brace.  No answer.  My dad called out relentlessly and finally got himself out into the other room, on crutches.  Tony was sitting upright on the couch.  Dead.  My dad yelled at him.  “What the fuck were you doing drinking those cockamamie drinks?”

It was hard after Tony, we all really missed him.  He was a member of our family.  There was one great perk to hanging out with my dad for Tony: he was included in the credits as Associate Producer on anything my dad produced.  Not that you necessarily wanted to associate with anything my dad produced.

Tony driving my dad around town

A few months ago, my sister-in-law Kris told me she had just found Tony’s recipe that my dad and the whole group of friends and family loved.  I’m sharing it with you.
TONY’S ITALIAN CHICKEN AND PEPPERS

1 chicken cut up
1 pkg. hot Italian Sausages
1 (lb.) can diced tomatoes
1 small can tomato paste
1 onion
3 cloves garlic
1 handful fresh crushed basil (He used to get this from his mother’s garden)
1/4 tsp. hot red pepper flakes
4 – 5 green and red bell peppers
salt and pepper

Saute chicken and sausages in olive oil until browned. Set aside.  Saute onions and garlic in oil, add tomato  paste, tomatoes, basil, hot pepper flakes, salt and pepper.  Add chicken and sausages.  On a low flame simmer (covered) for 1 1/2 hours.  Last 15 minutes add Bell peppers which have been sauteed in a little olive oil.  Serve over rice or noodles.  DELICIOUS!

my dad and Tony at Balboa Bay Club in Newport Beach