On my son Oliver’s 21^st birthday, he reluctantly gave in and let me invite a few of his friends over to celebrate – just a handful, the ones who adore him.  We were living on the beach in Malibu and I was so excited to share the house with him and his crew.  One close friend, Lily, had the foresight to buy him a porkpie hat.  They were not in style yet, as they have been now for years.  And Oliver rocked that hat.  He wore it every single day.

He was attending Santa Monica College, and one day on campus he was approached by talent scouts.  They said they were casting a national Coca-Cola commercial.  They told Oliver they liked his style.  (That hat!)  Oliver is shy or at least sort of camera shy.  Though at times he can be outrageous, like a performance artist — but only in the company of very close friends and family.

He showed up for the casting call.  Why not?  And he phoned me every step of the way.  The first call was “Should I go?”  He went.  Then again to say that if he gets a callback, they will fly him to San Francisco for that audition. “That’s great,” I said, never thinking it would go much further.   Next I know, he’s at the airport waiting for his flight.  I’m thinking it will be fun for my son to get a free trip.  First class treatment all the way, he reports from the groovy hotel they put all the potential actors in.

Flashback.  A few weeks before Oliver was discovered on his college campus, he began dating a new girl.  He told me how taken he was with her.  He brought flowers to her at work to woo her.  It succeeded.  He told me she was a very talented filmmaker, a student in the film department at SMC.

Now, he was calling her from the hotel in San Francisco to tell her the news.  He said he felt like he was in some dream; this could not be real.  He told the girl that if he lands this job he must stay for another week to shoot.  But, if he doesn’t, he’ll be home the next day.  For some unknown reason, she said, “You will never call me again, I feel it.”  He told her that’s just crazy.  He promised to call the minute he comes home.

He landed the job.  He never called the girl again.

For the week of shooting, Oliver was treated like a king.  I once did commercials, so I know how intoxicating that can be.  He was telling me that assistants would ask if he wanted something to drink.  He had no problem requesting hot tea.  What else do you want?  Let’s get you some expensive vintage clothes from a high-end store.  Oh, you can keep those shirts.  People were anticipating his every need.  On location in San Francisco Oliver had the time of his life.

Then he was home, and not only didn’t he call the girl again, he also never returned to school.  He sat back, rolling in dough.  If a homeless person needed something, however expensive, Oliver bought it for him.  He picked up the check at restaurants with friends.  And girls he dated received the most expensive boots and were taken to the best hotels.

Meanwhile, that Coke commercial aired nationally on TV every night, and could be seen in movie theaters around the country.

As for that girl, I never got to meet her.  I would encourage Oliver to call her and apologize.  One day, a year or so later, he did agree to meet her for coffee — and she was still angry, not ready to forgive.  I thought it was good that he tried at least to explain himself.  Not that I knew what the explanation was.

Flash forward.  A year or so later, I’m thinking of making a documentary about my dad and needed someone to help.  I hadn’t forgotten that Oliver told me the girl was a filmmaker.  I asked him for her phone number.  He said he didn’t have it, and furthermore, “She hates me.”  But I was adamant.   He left her a private MySpace message (this was BF, Before Facebook): “My mom wants you to call her.”

I pick up the phone and a young woman says, “I hear you want to talk to me.”  Yes, I respond, way too excited.  I need a person with a camera.  Do you own a video camera?  “Yes.”  Can you help me go around and get interviews?  I have to make a documentary about my dad and I don’t know where to start.  Are you available?  “Yes.”  Lets start next week… OH, WAIT…I hear you’re Mormon, do you have a problem with swear words?  The name of the movie is Fuck ‘em and you will be hearing a lot of bad words, is that okay?  “Yes, it’s fine.”  Great!!!

We went to work immediately making my movie.  And we loved each other from the start.  Rachel is teeny-tiny like me.  She looks like she could be my daughter.  And she’s FUN.  And funny.  And has a great sense of humor.  I was always so comfortable with her when she pointed her camera at me.  And so were the people we interviewed.  All the old Jews that were friends with my father fell a little in love with her.  She’s irresistible.  I also realized she was too wholesome/Marie Osmond for Oliver’s taste which is more edgy/tatted.

She was now at UCLA film school.  Not too shabby.  And she confided this to me: When she was asked to write an essay for her application she wrote this story –the story in this story.  That she had met a boy.  That he ran off one day for an audition, promising to return.  That she sensed he might not.  And then he didn’t.  And then, for a full year of her life, everywhere she went, she could not avoid seeing Oliver’s face on the big and small screen because they played the shit out of that Coke commercial.  The essay, the story of her recent life, got her accepted to one of America’s top film schools.  Way to go Rachel.  Turning a bad into a good.  And look how well it turned out for me.  I don’t know that I could have pulled off my film without her.

Oliver never acted again, though he did do a little modeling.  He now lives in San Francisco publishing an arts & culture magazine called Autre, a spinoff of his online magazine Pas Un Autre.  He still enjoys a nice Coca-Cola.

Oliver drinking coke!!!

I wasn’t even sure I would add a recipe to this piece. Most of my life I was addicted to coca cola. My dad arranged to have free cases delivered to our house monthly for many years. Some freebie deal he arranged because he had a coke machine in his office on a studio lot. My mother blamed my dad for our childhood cavities. Oh well. I was a happy camper. Drank them for breakfast until into my 50′s really. And all day long. Here is a recipe that I just found online.

Coca Cola Cake (sounds really great and southern, in honor of my mom)
2 c. unsifted flour
2 sticks butter
1 c. Coca Cola
2 eggs, beaten
1 tsp. vanilla
1 1/2 c. miniature marshmallows
2 c. sugar
3 tbsp. cocoa
1/2 c. buttermilk
1 tsp. baking soda
Combine flour and sugar in mixing bowl. Heat butter, cocoa, and Coca Cola to boiling, and pour over flour/sugar mixture, mixing thoroughly. Add buttermilk, eggs, soda, vanilla, and marshmallows. Mix well. Will be a thin batter with marshmallows floating on top.
Bake in a 9×13 inch cake pan in a preheated 350°F oven for 30 to 35 minutes.

Ice while hot with the recipe following:

COCA COLA CAKE ICING:
1/2 c. butter
3 tbsp. cocoa
6 tbsp. Coca Cola
1 (1 lb.) box confectioners’ sugar
1 c. chopped pecans
Combine butter, cocoa, and Coca Cola. Heat to boiling point, pour over confectioners’ sugar. Beat well, then add pecans and spread over cake while still hot.

Oliver modeling in a magazine

the party that launched the hat that launched the career!!!

me and my mom at our beach house

In our family, life is six degrees of feline separation.

I often tell people I was meant to grow up in Malibu.  That is where we lived — right on the beach – but my mom’s cat Jezebel was killed by a car, and that incident turned my life around.

My mother decided it wasn’t safe on the highway (PCH) and we moved to the house on Roxbury Drive, Beverly Hills.  The year was 1955.   The former owners sold it to us with one perfect provision: the cat comes with the house.  What are the chances of this?  We move because a cat gets killed and instantly we have this new one.  Hangover, who came with his name, was a rather large, slightly feral black & white street boy.  The name, in the lore of our family (and from what the previous owners told us), came from this big-ass cat’s habit of hanging over the sides of trees that he climbed.  He was not a drunk.  He was really frisky, almost unsafe for a small child.

Hangover the cat!!!

On days when I was sick at home, Sheriff John would be playing on the TV, but I wouldn’t be watching — because I was too busy forcing Hangover’s paws to crayon  pictures with me getting scratched by the real leader of our family.  He kept me/us in line.  He was also the first creature I would love.

When we moved into our big Spanish Beverly Hills home (not as big as north of the tracks, but WAY big enough for us), the former owners told us they never knew how old the cat was.  My dad warned that we’d better get used to the fact that he could die at any time because we didn’t know his age.  The thought of this would just freak me out, not only because I didn’t want to lose Hangy the cat, but because my dad was an older dad.  So, the same fear applied to him too.  I would pray to my secret God (we were not religious): Please God, don’t let my father or cat die.  I would beg for three more years – which seemed like an eternity — and as they passed, added on another three years.

Hangover watched us grow up.  He was there when my brother graduated from Little to Pony League, there when I had makeout parties in the basement.  Hangover watched from the vantage point of his tree as Alan and I got our first cars at age 16.

One time, my mother adopted some Siamese cats that someone couldn’t take care of anymore.  My mother was way ahead of her time; adopting animals, militant about getting them fixed, never wearing fur.  The cats came with papers and fancy names from the breeder: Rupas Holiday, a frost point, and Rupas Krishna, a chocolate point.  Holly and Krissy.  Think, “We are Siamese if you please…” They were magical for me in my quiet world.

papers for Holiday and Krishna

My mother grew up on a farm with lots of animals, wild and domestic.  This was the closest she would ever get to that life again.  Except for those long rides through the Malibu hills when my parents, in the front seat, would point to properties they “might” buy so we could have horses and all kinds of animals that would make us happy.  (May I warn you parents out there doing this, fantasizing out loud in front of your kids, “we” are susceptible and buy into it.)  I would envision it all.  Life on the Malibu Hills Ranch.  Tons of wild creatures to love and care for.   We were raised to be animal lovers and animal lovers we remain.

My praying had worked — or (rare) my dad, the sage, was wrong.  By the time Hangover went missing, I was a senior in high school and had long adapted to the fact that my cat would one day die.  At the end, he would lay on the back steps with flies all over him because he was too frail to shake them off.  He looked like those animals you see in India or Africa, a sorry sight.  And when finally, we didn’t see our Hangy around, I accused my mom of euthanizing him.  She insisted she didn’t.

Hangover had a pretty good and long life.  I only had to renegotiate that deal with God about five times.  And then some years later, when my mother sold the Roxbury place, she found his bones under the house in the spot where he’d presumably gone to die.

My and Alan’s love for Hangover shaped and defined us.  So much so, that now our children, especially Augie (my daughter) and Erica (my niece) are burdened with that feline obsession.

Thank God for pussy!!!!  You didn’t really think I would do a whole story about cats and not use that word, did you? 

Erica Duke and the frisky Buster

When I was home sick my  mother would trick out a can of tomato soup, making it creamy and delicious.  Here is a recipe I found that might duplicate that taste.

Rich and Creamy Tomato Basil Soup Recipe

4 tomatoes – peeled, seeded and diced
4 cups tomato juice
14 leaves fresh basil
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1/2 cup butter
salt and pepper to taste
Directions

Place tomatoes and juice in a stock pot over medium heat. Simmer for 30 minutes. Puree the tomato mixture along with the basil leaves, and return the puree to the stock pot.
Place the pot over medium heat, and stir in the heavy cream and butter. Season with salt and pepper. Heat, stirring until the butter is melted. Do not boil.

Augie Duke with her rescue kittenErica Duke and her frisky boy Buster

Some women like shoes.  Some dig purses.  I love coats.  And I have lots of them.

I own a vintage Biba coat, which means nothing to most people, but I bought it for 5 pounds at the antiques market on London’s Portobello Road in the late 70’s.  Though I have a few designer coats, it isn’t about the name for me at all.  It’s about covering up and looking good when I am probably wearing sweats and looking faintly homeless underneath.

I screened a documentary about my dad the other night, and in a little speech before the movie I stated that some chicks in this town spend on a purse what I spent on the whole budget of my film.

One day, my son Oliver had these friends over.  The girl made a passing remark that she liked my coat.  Boy, was she sorry.  I said “If you like this, you might also like this,” then I came out to the pool where they were talking wearing a different one.  She oohed and aahed.  At that point, I just went into full-blown modeling every single coat I owned, or at least the ones I adore.  She was a model herself, so I thought she might like my show.  Only, it took over an hour.  An hour of her life and mine spent digging in my closets to find stylish coats that I’ve purchased over the years.  Poor Oliver.

Each year on my birthday, my husband either goes hunting for a new coat on his own or he might go with me to pick out a cool one.  And then I wear the shit out of it.  If you see me in the market, I will be wearing that year’s model, and you can only guess what’s under it.  Not pretty, trust me.

Recently at a party, I sat with my friend Lynne and we stared out at the crowd, commenting on this person or that.  Pointing to the old lady parked on the couch that never moved the whole night, I said, “Look Lynne, that’s me in the near future!”  She said, “Yeah, but you’ll be rocking a cool new coat.”
FOOD!!!!

My friend Joy and I headed up to visit our friend Joel who lives with his girlfriend Birte and their adorable newborn baby named Oliver. Joy picked up a big stash of fresh croissants from Maison Giraud in the Palisades. They were going to be a host/hostess gift for Joel and Birte. We ate a few perfect buttery ones on our long drive. We stopped in Visalia to have lunch with Joy’s old friend and my new friend Bruce. Going out with Bruce in Visialia is a little bit like hanging out with the biggest celeb in town. Everyone knows Bruce. We went to the best restaurant in town, San Joaquin’s finest, The Vintage Press. What a stunning looking place, designed to look like you are on a grand ocean liner. We ordered a Green Chili Relleno for the table and the chef sent out a specialty…because we were with the famous Bruce!!!

When we arrived at Joel’s ranch near the Sequoia mountains, we were served warm cookies and I added some cookies that I had baked the night before. Then they served us dinner which was delicious, soup and salad.

In the morning, everyone ate those amazing croissants and Joel told me that it instantly transported him to a sidewalk cafe in Paris which is just the highest praise!!!

The model in the story and her boyfriend are vegans. There was never anything I made that they would eat in my home except one time they did eat some broccoli.
Here is a vegetarian recipe that my friend Joel just sent me to use in honor of vegans or vegetarians everywhere, especially the model that had to suffer through my “show”.

Mung Beans with Rice

3 medium onions, diced
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon ginger, minced
4 tablespoons oil
2 teaspoons turmeric, ground
1 teaspoon cumin, ground
1 teaspoon coriander, ground
1 teaspoon garam marsala, ground
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon salt
2 zucchinis, sliced
6 carrots, sliced coarsely
4 celery stalks, sliced
1 ½ cups of broccoli
8 oz mushrooms, sliced
Add any number of additional vegetables for variation (green beans, cauliflower, spinach, chard, kale)
1 ½ cups dry mung beans, soaked overnight
1 cup brown rice
6 cups water

Sauté onions, garlic and ginger in oil until soft under medium heat. Add turmeric, cumin, coriander, garam marsala, cayenne pepper and salt and cook for 3 minutes. Add water to large soup pot, and throw in all of the ingredients. Bring to boil and then turn down to lowest setting to simmer for 40 minutes. Serve with Braggs or your favorite chutney. The end result is a delicious and nutritious comfort food that is great for restoring health and vitality. This receipe is a variation of Yogi Bhajan’s traditional Indian dish which is a favorite of Sikh yogis.

favorite pic of me and Joel at our recent reunion

on Joel's property with Joy and Joel

The most memorable thing about the Friday night Y-Dances to me was Wendie Miller’s perfect flip.  I don’t know why, because, to be honest, she wore that flip every single day to school. Okay, sometimes Wendie had just a simple — but thick — and also perfect ponytail.  When Friday nights rolled around in the fall and those dances became the highlight of our week, I would long to achieve the Wendie Miller “do.”

My mother had gone to beauty school, so she knew her way around the current hairstyles, but makeup was more her specialty.  She worked as assistant to George Masters, the famous makeup artist.  Together, they did people like Ann-Margaret and Jackie Kennedy.  But there I was, nearly a midget.  (Sorry, I have always called myself that, even though it is not politically correct.  Let’s pretend it’s still the 60’s.  Midget.  Shortest girl in my grade.  Except maybe Susan Slutsky, who was a touch shorter.  No, I’m not being politically incorrect again — her last name really was Slutsky.)

On a Friday afternoon, my mom got to work with the curlers, and they were so friggin tight.  This was not some gentle, warm and cozy experience.  The curlers were not delicately rolled up.  It was a form of torture.  And then the over-teasing and the setting of her masterpiece with so much hairspray that I’m surprised I didn’t end up with black lung.  By the way, the reveal wasn’t so pretty.  This was no Wendie Miller flip.  It was my extra-small head topped by tons of overly teased and sprayed hair.  Think “Tiara’s and Toddlers,” the show about little beauty pageant kids.  Think JonBenet Duke.  Big-big hair, small-small girl.  So, now I would walk into the Y-Dance faintly embarrassed by my bad-hair-day-on-purpose, but I never really had the nerve to undo it.  I was just stuck with my bad hair and my hair was stuck too.  With Aqua Net.

I let my mother and her new “beauty” career experiment on me, and ultimately she gave me two of my most bitchin’ haircuts.  The Beatles cut.  And the unforgettable and truly genius Twiggy cut.  She practiced her first shag haircut on her own longhaired cat named General Rodriguez.  I came home from school one day to find “Rod’s” hair all chopped up and asked her what was wrong.  She said there was a new hairstyle called the “shag” and she needed to try it out on him.  She also wore a flea collar around her own ankle.   Don’t ask.   And you wonder why I’m a strange one?

What was GREAT about the Y-Dances was getting to know all the kids from the other grammar schools.  We had four different grammar schools in Beverly Hills.  Now we could meet and have crushes on boys from outside our school district.  I really thought the nicest boys were two that were my size.  Is that why I liked them?  Or perhaps it was just that they both were nice to me.  Richie Greenberg and Richie Seltzer.  The two Richie’s.   Oh, and they were cute!!!!

Ricky Farber, already written about in another blog of mine, was the notoriously beautiful girl at Horace Mann school.  I remember being kind of jealous when she was asked to front Chris Head’s (a boy in our grade) band as he headlined one night at the dance.  She had a tambourine.  And I really did play tambourine.  (Did I?  I thought I did because I was a percussionist and we had to sort of play everything.)  So, why was I not considered?  Maybe it was that hideous flip.  Maybe it was that I looked like I was nine years old.

I don’t remember actually dancing at one of these dances.  I remember sitting on chairs that were up against the back wall.  Waiting.  Hoping some young dude would ask me to dance because boy, was I gonna show them then.  I danced like a little stripper.  I did.  That’s the way I danced. I felt the music and I got lost in it, and even at that age, I gyrated, practically bumping-and-grinding my way through a song.  Totally inappropriate, but authentic.  If there had been a YouTube of me dancing at that age, child predators would have been knocking down my door.  Erik Gibson really liked the way I danced and I will tell that story one day, so stay tuned.

My idol at the time was the actress Nancy Kwan (The World of Suzie Wong).  Why was she my idol?  Because she played a slut (back to that word again) and was so friggin sexy; it’s what I wanted and yearned to be.  Also, my dad was really keen on her and he was my REAL idol.  I liked everything and everyone my dad liked.  Later, in my late teens, early twenties, I would dress like Suzie Wong for Halloween and walk around saying a line from the movie: “Me Suzie, me nice gil (girl) me no Shanghai street gil.”  And, I dressed like Suzie many other days of the year.  I had lots of tight-fitting, exquisite Chinese dresses to play Nancy Kwan dress-up.

Suzie Wong Wanna-Be!!!

When I get my time machine, I will go back to when my mother drops me off in front of the Y.  I will go straight into the bathroom and flatten out that damn flip.  Then, I will not wait for the “girls’ choice” to ask a boy to dance.  Instead, I will get off my chair by the back wall, and just dance the night away alone.

On school nights, or maybe even on a Y dance Friday night, my mother would make calves liver. I looked in my James Beard cookbook and came up with this. I think my mother and other people soaked the liver in milk back in the day but here is what looks like a good recipe. And they recommend and so do I to buy the very best quality. Ask your butcher. Are you vegetarians cringing about now? Talk about not PC!
Sauteed Calves Liver Recipe
1 ½ pounds thinly sliced liver
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
Flour
Salt and pepper
½ chopped green onion
½ cup chopped parsley
Heat the butter and oil together. Dip the liver slices in flour and sauté them quickly allowing one minute to each side. They should be crispy brown but pinkish in the center. Salt and pepper them to taste, sprinkle them with chopped onion and parsley and serve with pan juices poured over them. My mother cooked them with onions and she sort of burned the onions and I like this dish with bacon and onions.  Now listen below to the song that Chris Head’s band played at the Y Dance.

When the boyfriend was either at work or school, I would crank the heat way up, shut all the windows and fall into a near coma of sleep. It’s a miracle I survived and didn’t succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning. Cosmo would get hungry while I slept and feed himself; not an easy task because he had to climb up on a shelf, knock the box down, pull out an individually wrapped bag, open it with his teeth, then paw out each piece of dry food. He was very respectful of my sleep, never waking me up.

On many of these days, I feel like my life might have been saved by my friend Peter. He would come wake me up around noon so we could head over to our favorite little Mexican place on Pico — Campos (for taquitos). These were the days that I never ate breakfast and went straight to lunch upon waking.

asleep in my beach bungalow

One morning, during REM sleep, I had a dream in which I walked out onto our beach and a crowd of people — my fans (delusional) — were clapping for me. I had quite an inflated ego, at least subconsciously. Then I woke to hear real clapping coming from the Nichiren Shoshu Buddhist building nearby. Namu myoho renge kyo, anyone?

I worked a few days a week in the Beverly Hills office of a famous plastic surgeon. On those days, I did wake up at a decent hour. And to offset the straight-looking nurse’s outfit I had to wear, I would throw on my hippie feather earrings.

working at the doctors office

I love costumes but a nurse’s uniform is just not sexy. Guess what I thought was sexy? My hairy armpits. Yep. Thought that was the coolest. But there was a cooler-than-me girl on that beach — Sally. Sally was a great volleyball player and all the boys wanted her on their team. We played two against two. I say “we” though I’m not very sporty. But I knew I was losing the boyfriend to his passion, so I joined in as his teammate. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a really short, not very athletic chick to run around that big area, setting the ball up for another person to smash it? And in the sand, mind you? Sally always made it look effortless. Not to mention that when she raised her hand to serve the ball (excellently, of course), her armpit hair was blonde. (This is probably grossing out a lot of people but we were hippie chicks, we didn’t shave.) Also, the hair on her legs was light and blonde. She was profoundly tan and it made the blonde hair even cooler. So I bought some Jolene bleach. Do you see where this is heading? If you think I’m not that great at playing volleyball, I was also not the chick that knew how to use bleach. I left it on too long and now had bright, neon-orange armpit hair. Which actually turned out great for our games, because it blinded the opposing players and allowed us to score.

When I started getting cast in television commercials and working a lot, the plastic surgeon gave me an ultimatum: his office or my acting career. I loved my friends at the office — they had become family, in a sitcom kind of way, but he was right.

Around this time, I did a toothpaste commercial and the following week, was told that it needed to be reshot. Everyone was recast but me. Some new actor, just arrived in town, was now playing my boyfriend. He was fresh and different on every take, so clever. I called my dad on a break and told him he must come to the set to see this guy. The guy’s name was Henry Winkler.

That day at work, I told Henry something I thought was hilarious. That my phone number at 1309 Promenade was 393-FUCK. It was — by accident. 393-3825. And no, I would not have probably figured this out on my own, had I not received some phony phone calls asking me about it. One day, shortly after working with this new actor Henry, he called me at home. He said he was just checking to see if it was true. And since I do swear a lot, we thought it was fitting that my phone number was 393-FUCK.

One day, I came home to a note from my boyfriend. It said, “Call Gray Davis.” The previous week I had been at a party at my friend Barbara Dudley’s house. She and her sisters were all beautiful and popular and parties at their house were always filled with interesting people of all ages. I didn’t really remember meeting Gray Davis, but apparently I had made quite an impression and he was calling to ask me out on a date. It was really random considering how straight he seemed and how wacky (hairy orange armpits) I was. Knowing me, I was probably standing in a group of people, entertaining them with my easy-to-remember phone number. I had to call Gray back with the bad news that I was living with a boyfriend. Had things worked out differently, I might have been First Lady to California’s only recalled governor.

now I know why I save this useless piece of paper

The only dish I knew how to cook when I lived at 1309 Promenade was one I tried to copy from my mother. I made just the scallops, no side dishes at all. I also think I added freshly chopped garlic which I would not do today.

PAN-SAUTEED SEA SCALLOPS
1 1/2 lbs. scallops
1/3 c. fine, dry bread crumbs
1/4 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. pepper (optional)
1/2 c. butter, divided
1 tbsp. chopped parsley
3 tbsp. lemon juice
Roll scallops in bread crumbs. Melt half of the butter in frying pan; do not brown. Add salt, pepper. Add scallops; saute slowly until golden brown, turning often, about 10 minutes. Remove scallops to serving platter. Add remaining butter to frying pan with lemon juice and parsley. Heat until butter melts; pour over scallops. Makes 4 servings.

me and Cosmo, 1309 Promenade

movie still of me "playing" a nurse

When my first child, Oliver, was in pre-school, there was the perfunctory final meeting with his group of loving teachers.  One bit of advice stood out.  Maybe when he starts kindergarten, you can encourage him to lose the costume and makeup that he insists on wearing daily.

Who was I to discourage the distinctive fashion choice of my four-and-a-half year old son?  I wore costumes to school every single day of my life — in high school, mostly.  One day I might wear holsters and fake guns.  Next, I might walk my plastic duck on a leash into the classroom, take out a toy tea set and have a pretend tea party.  And I miss my matador costume; I would wear that right now if I still had it.

So there was Oliver in “big boy school” and he decided to not wear the face paint, but he did rock his new 1950’s-style greaser jacket.  He had just seen the movie “Grease.”

Oliver’s father (my ex) asked me one day if I’d seen the woman that looked so much like me.  He said she dresses a bit like me, is very short like me, and walks her son to school, pushing her young daughter in a stroller.  Just like me.  He noticed and mentioned her a few times.   Nope, hadn’t seen my doppelganger.  Never did.

Kindergarten went by with Oliver still in his “Grease” stage, and he luckily landed in the top-choice, first-grade class.  A team of teachers, Ms. Zarider and Ms. Devine, taught it.  They loved what they did and it showed in how happy the kids were in their class.  At the end of the year, the parents went in for the usual conference.  The ex and I sat together while the two teachers discussed Oliver.  They were thinking out loud that maybe the second grade could be a difficult adjustment for him.  They told us perhaps they made a mistake with a kid very much like Oliver that was in their class the year before.  Maybe, they should have held Max, this other kid, back because the new grade was tough for him, and he kept running back to them, their classroom and their kindness.  Oliver, they repeated a few times, was a very similar kid and they pointed out that we were very much like Max’s parents.  I didn’t think about this conversation for long, and Oliver would be headed off to the second grade.

A month or so later we were invited to a kid’s birthday party that was in Oliver’s class.  It was there that I met Max and his dad.

I figured out that it was this Max that Zarider & Devine had mentioned, and asked his dad,  “How was the second grade for Max?  Is his teacher notorious (it was rumored she was mean) for a good reason?”  He told me that this particular teacher always managed to put a negative spin on things, in contrast to his first grade teaching team who were positive about everything.   He said Max hated her.

One day, during that summer before second grade, I sent Oliver off with his grandmother to see a movie in Century city, just a block or two from where we lived.  When they arrived home, Gourmet Grandma (that’s what you all know her as in this blog) announced that Oliver and this kid Max from El Rodeo got along really well.  Apparently, Max’s grandparents had taken him to see the same movie.  Gourmet Grandma pointed out that they were similar kids, both small for their age.  She indicated they might want to get together for a “play date” sometime.  I didn’t think much of that, but if it were a script, there had been an awful lot of foreshadowing about Max and his family.

Max, Barnaby, Emma and Augie....Brady Bunching

Max is my stepson and I’ve been in his life for twenty years now, married to his father for thirteen.  Emma, the little baby in the stroller that my ex pointed out, is my stepdaughter.  If you’re reading my blog, you will know that one fateful day in Nate n’ Al’s restaurant in Beverly Hills, I saw Max’s dad and said we should get the boys together for that “play date.”  I then said, “My husband just left me for another woman, if you have anyone to set me up with….” — a line I used on just about anyone, whether I knew them or not (refer to blog called Germ Warfare).  This guy “Mike” told me he and his wife were divorcing.  I said, “In that case, you can ask me out.”  And he called that very day.  We’ve been together since then.  I wore a costume on that first date, something that would rule him out quickly if he were to judge me for the way I dressed.   Fortunately, he liked a grown woman with fake guns and a plastic duck.  

Every year for my husband Michael’s birthday I make him his favorite cake. Tomorrow is his birthday, tonight this is what I will be baking.
Happy Birthday to my- Divine- Intervention- Husband Cake
lngredients
Cake:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup superfine sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup best-quality cocoa
1 1/2 sticks soft unsalted butter
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons good-quality vanilla extract
2/3 cup sour cream
Special equipment: 2 (each 8-inch diameter) layer tins with removable bases, buttered
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Put all the cake ingredients: flour, sugar, baking powder and soda, cocoa, butter, eggs, vanilla, and sour cream into a food
processor and process until you have a smooth, thick batter. I just throw it all in a big mixing bowl and use a hand mixer. lf you want to go the long way around, First mix the flour, sugar
and leavening agents in a large bowl and beat in the soft butter until you have a combined and creamy mixture. Now whisk
together the cocoa, sour cream, vanilla, and eggs and beat this into your bowl of mixture.
Divide this batter, using a rubber spatula to help you scrape and spread, into the prepared tins and bake until a cake tester
comes out clean, which should be about 35 minutes, but it is wise to start checking at 25 minutes
Frosting which is why my husband loves this cake!!!
1 8 ounce package cream cheese softened
1 stick unsalted butter softened
1 teaspoon vanilla
use a hand mixer to combine all the ingredients and then add by hand a package of shredded coconut
frost your chocolate coconut cake and celebrate!!!

We Are Family!!!!!

signed Buddy Bregman picture, for sale on Ebay

Live in 5-4-3-2-1, Fredrica

To hear this story, please view the clip that goes with it.

And now I will tell you my behind the scenes story.

My dad produced a live rock and roll television show on Sunday nights on NBC in the late 50’s called Music Shop. My brother and I did get to hula hoop in the pilot for this show.  But, I was a nudge.  Ha, like was a nudge, past tense.   I think my first words were, “Daddy, I want to be an actress, let me star in something”.  If my dad had something going, he would often humor me and give me a small role.  But, this was my first role.  Not much of one, really.  James Darren sang his hit song Gidget to me.    Oh, just watch the clip and let me finish with the other part of this story.

The emcee of the show was a man named Buddy Bregman.  To me, he was the most handsome man on earth and he was my first real and true love.  He would often say the words “I love you”.  So, I knew this to be a real thing.  Then one day on the set.  Ha, one day on the set…I was maybe four years old, and I overheard a stage hand or the first assistant director say that Buddy’s girlfriend was here.  Well, hello? Of course she was here.  She, was ME.  Only they then said the words Anna Maria Alberghetti.  It was as if someone had just shot an arrow through my heart and not in the Valentine good kind of way.  And then I saw her and then I saw them, embrace.  Moments later I overheard yet another tormenting thing.  He was rumored to marry her.  And he was madly in love.  That’s when I took to calling her Anna Maria Spaghetti, said with a tude on the spaghetti.

my dad on left with Buddy and Sammy Davis Jr.

My dad’s rock and roll show got cancelled in less than a season.  And Buddy did not end up marrying me or Anna Maria Spaghetti.

My favorite pasta as a child and I ordered it in every Italian restaurant, still do, is Aglio e Olio.
Recipe for Anna Maria Spaghetti Aglio e Olio
Ingredients
1 pound dried pasta (spaghetti, linguine, or your favorite pasta)
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 tablespoon crushed red pepper flakes
Directions
Cook pasta in boiling, salted water until al dente. Meanwhile, heat olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add garlic and red pepper flakes and cook until garlic is lightly browned. Remove from heat. Drain pasta, reserving 1/4 cup of the cooking liquid, and place in a bowl for tossing and serving. Add olive oil mixture and toss. Add the reserved cooking liquid if mixture seems dry. Serve immediately and I might add some chopped Italian parsley.

When James Darren sang Gidget to me

Do you remember when Zsa Zsa slapped a policeman in Beverly Hills?  It made all the papers.  Made the nightly news.  People might have assumed she was just a hot head.  I have news for those people.  He deserved it.  Big time. If he’s the guy I’m thinking of, and I’m pretty sure he is.

The cop sported a mustache that was so retro in style, yet not hip in the least. For that ugly mustache alone he deserved that slap.    He was a cowboy on his motorcycle moving in and out of the traffic without awareness of other drivers.  He also spun around on his horse, I mean, motorcycle, on some mornings to give my handicapped father shit about being dropped off in front of his favorite deli.  My father knew this routine well.  He would ask whoever was driving him to drop him off directly in front of places to make it the easiest on himself for a quick entry.  Or, as he called it: “a straight-in job.”  And sure, he was double-parked, but there was another lane and rarely any traffic at that time of day.  My dad would be threatened with a ticket but he would just keep moving and yelling at the cop.  And the next day, it would start all over again.

One day, at Christmastime, while I was driving through Beverly Hills in my pink Datsun (yep, I had a pink Datsun, the only one), I remembered an errand I needed to run.  I was hugely pregnant and due to have my second child in just weeks.  I had ordered this little, very fancy (expensive) push car for kids at Gearys on North Beverly Drive.  I guess it was a year I was celebrating Christmas and buying real gifts (refer to last blog).  I pull over in the red, right in front of Geary’s, and tell my friend Libbie to wait in the car so that I don’t get a ticket.  I looked for a second in my side mirror and then opened the car door just a touch, a few inches, I was going to keep looking.  I am extra safe, partly because I’m pregnant and moving at a slower pace, and partly because I’m just an overly cautious person.  At the moment I opened the door those few inches, though I had looked just before, my door smashes into something and I look up and it’s a Beverly Hills cop on his motorcycle.  Well, he’s not on his motorcycle anymore!!!  He’s on the ground but the first hit caused a chain reaction and now he’s hit the car ahead of him.  So, now I’m responsible for hitting a cop and I am about to be blamed for the other fender bender.  The cop brushes himself off and walks to my door, livid.  And it’s HIM!!!!  The infamous cop!!!  He’s pissed too. But  I stood firm, insisting that it wasn’t my fault, and I knew he knew what a reckless driver he was, moving in and out at a very fast pace.  But now Libbie and I were being held hostage — and secretly laughing — by this angry macho dude, and within an hour, the whole police force was on Beverly Drive surrounding us.  I am not sure how long this ordeal lasted, and I have no recollection of any further consequences, so I’m pretty sure it was all dropped.  However, news travels fast and I got a call from my father saying everyone from Nate n’ Al’s called to tell him that the whole police force responded to back up one of their own regarding this “incident” involving me and my pink datsun.

One of my favorite dishes that Libbie’s mother Joy Aroff made at her parties was an egg salad served with both potato chips and Carr’s water crackers. I always then made it for us and then for years I made this egg salad for my kids.
Joy Aroff’s Egg Salad (my version)
refrigerated hard boiled eggs (trick I learned from Gourmet Grandma is to have the water boil for 5 minutes, turn off flame and then sit for 5 minutes)
Chopped Celery
Chopped onion
mayonnaise
either French’s mustard or a good dijon Mustard
I chop the eggs and smother this in the mayonnaise and I switch between those two mustards and I guess some people like relish but I don’t add that. I mix it all up really well and it’s more of a dip than a proper egg salad that you would make for a sandwich.

Libbie sitting with my egg salad in front of her, early 80's

I sang with my friend Cindy Lou Carlson in her church for the Christmas pageant.  Those rehearsals alone put me in a church more times than I was ever in a temple — at least until my kids and step-kids became B’nai Mitzvah.

I’m assuming my mom was some sort of Christian, but your guess is as good as mine.  She never walked us into a church and never spoke of any religion.  So, there you go, two parents – one gentile, one Jewish — who offered zero religious guidance.  We called ourselves half-and-half.  This was pretty commonplace in Beverly Hills, though each family would often choose a side and go to temple or church.  Christmas or Chanukah.

We celebrated Christmas, tree and all.  Show business was up and down and some years we had big-time gifts.  The trees were bigger in those years.  At other times we might have skimpy trees with few gifts.

One year, I scored.  We all scored.  My dad had a friend who had a TV show and he finagled a bunch of freebie popular toys of the day for us.  I coveted Patty Play Pal.  She’s all I ever wanted.  I wonder if there were Chatty Cathy people and Patty Play Pal people.  I just dug how big that doll seemed.  I was little, so for me she was huge.  That year, my mother got her new hi-fi and played it continuously Christmas day.    Holiday paper and ribbon were strewn about as Bobby Darin belted “Mack the Knife.”  And I got my big-ass doll — a new friend in my wonderful fantasy-filled life.  My brother got shit he wanted.  We had pogo sticks and stilts.  We were a very happy family with a house filled-to-the-brim with every hot toy and gadget.

me and Santa!

One year, my mother made an announcement.  This year, we were to finally celebrate Chanukah.  Oh my fucking God, I have never been more excited.  I was going to get a different gift every single night for 8 nights.  This was a thrilling turn of events.  We celebrated every evening at the Rutenbergs.  One night, I got Play-Doh.  Another, Pick-up Sticks.  Then a “dam-it doll” (Troll doll).  My brother Alan probably got marbles or perhaps a stamp collection book.   Do you get where this is going?  I mean I was the most grateful child for any gift, so I was fully enjoying and loving each night.  But let’s face it these were 8 cheap gifts.  It was not a Patty Play Pal year.  I did, however, really like singing “The Dreidel Song” and getting Chanukah gelt (chocolate covered coins).

And when my kids have their own blogs, telling their childhood stories, here is one they will more than likely tell.  One year, nothing.  Their mother didn’t go out and buy a single gift.  I couldn’t decide if we were doing Christmas or Chanukah, so we did basically … gornish’d (Yiddish word meaning nothing).  My excuse?  I had no money.  Oh, come on, you can be so creative with no money.  I just got lazy.  And frankly, I’m just always a touch confused during this holiday, not being religious and all.  Random days should be holidays.  All right, enough excuses.  I felt bad on Christmas Day and I sat both my kids down, sort of serious and ceremonial.  I told them I had something VERY special to give them.  I said it again.  “This is VERY special.  You understand how special this gift is about to be?”  I’m building.  They are wide-eyed, small children.  We had two cats, Axel and Algernon.  My kids had these two cats all their lives.  Sitting there, looking into their eyes, (not a tree or a present anywhere) I declared Axel is now “YOURS” to Oliver.  I handed Axel to him.  Then I looked at Augie, handing over her great new Christmas present, telling her Algernon was “HERS”.  They bought it!!!!!  I gave my kids hand-me-down, already-belonging-to-them cats as Christmas gifts.  And they were overjoyed.  Best Christmas ever!  I’m kidding, it wasn’t — but we do laugh about that moment when they play back some of the wacky things I have done as a mother.

Here is what else their mother did.  I made homemade play dough.  It is so much more special than the Chanukah gift I got long ago.  Though I do love the packaging of real Play-Doh.  The little yellow canisters with different colored tops.  Love those.  The smell.  Love that.  But there is nothing like the touch and feel of home-made play dough.

Recipe for Home-Made Play Dough
Home Made Play Dough Recipe
1 cup flour
1/2 cup salt
1 cup water
2 tablespoons oil
2 tablespoons cream of tartar
Mix flour, salt and oil, and slowly add the water. Cook over medium heat, stirring until dough becomes stiff. Turn out onto wax paper and let cool. Knead the playdough with your hands until of proper consistency. Add a few drops of food coloring.

Patty Play Pal doll

We were lucky to “know” someone. My dad was always up for a freebie and one winter vacation we borrowed his friend Alan Freed’s house. Alan, the New York disc jockey known as “the father of rock & roll,” had in fact coined the phrase “rock and roll.” Poor Alan Freed. Sometimes when we were there to visit him and not on our own, I would make him sit and listen while I auditioned for him, singing the hit Allan Sherman camp song, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh (Here I am at Camp Granada).” I was convinced I had a great voice, but in truth could not have been more off-key.

Hello Mudder Hello Fadder

The Fishell family lived a few blocks away because they were one of the lucky ones who owned their own home in the desert. The Fishell girls were very grown up and popular. All the boys gravitated to them. My dad was a friend of their dad Dick, an older father like my own, with a hot, younger wife, also like mine. To be honest, my parents had been divorced for years, but we went everywhere together as a family. Very modern, way ahead of their time. Maybe no one even realized they were divorced.

The twins, Jeannie and Jackie Fishell were a year younger than me, in fifth grade, and Robin was my age and also in sixth. Every day we hung out as a large group of pre-teens. Robin was probably too mature for me so I hung out more with Jeannie and Jackie. At night we had spin the bottle parties with lots of boys who remember our peck of a kiss to this day. Like John Sofro who would later marry one of my BFF’s — Barbara Dudley.

The Beautiful Fishell Family

I was in way over my head and my mother must have felt something was up (no pun intended) and decided it was time to have “the talk”. Yes, the dreaded birds and the bee’s talk took place in the desert that Christmas. She sat me down all serious, looked me in the eyes and literally put her hand on my extra-flat chest and said, “Boys are going to want to touch you here.” Eeeewwww! Was she kidding? I so didn’t want to be having any kind of weird-ass talk with her and I really hated that she actually touched me to get her point across. By the way, I wasn’t born yesterday, even at that age. I grew up around a father who used words like prick and cunt like other fathers said please and thank you. I would have to explain to kids playing at my house, “Oh a prick is a penis … cunt is a vagina,” and the kid would be so confused. Why had Fredde’s father called some guy a penis???? Anyway, I knew things. I guess now that I’m older I appreciate that she went to the trouble, but back then I cringed big time.

Oh, for the record, a boy wouldn’t be touching me “here” until I was 15 years old. I had smuggled Scooter on to the cheerleading bus from an away game. We sat together in back. It was very late at night. I could not have been more infatuated with Scooter; he knew it and humored me all the time. This time he put his hand above my breasts and over my not sexy uniform, which, underneath, barely concealed a REALLY BIG not-so-secret Kotex pad held in place by a now ancient, almost medieval belt. He said “Trust me?” in an unforgettably hot moment in my life. I said, “Yes”. And he put his hand right on those barely visable tits of mine. So, I finally went to second base. Sort of. If it counts that it’s over thick orange and white felt material, which it shouldn’t.

me in orange and white felt cheerleading uniform

So, back to the desert. On the first night there, before the aforementioned infamous chat with mom, my parents decided we should all go skinny-dipping. Mom’s idea. Seriously. The water in the pool was cranked way up. It was a hot sexy desert night (with my parents?) and my clearly sex-crazed, nudist (not that I knew it before) mother wanted to swim sans suits. Very European of her, I now realize. At the time, you couldn’t pay me to be naked. Now, it’s hard to keep my suit on and I ONLY swim naked. So, I know the exact moment in life that caused me to free myself of clothes. Stems back to that fateful night. We did it. We swam naked as a family. Are we freaks? Maybe. The only thing that honestly ever bothered me about my own body, and that I was 100% self-conscious of was this nasty bluish purple mole on my ass. A big-ass mole on, literally, my ass!!! So, the summer before I knew I would want to get naked with a boy (and not just to swim), I went to a plastic surgeon friend of the family to have it removed. I know you want to know how old I was, not telling. Okay, fifteen. But I think I waited until sixteen to take all my clothes off for a boy. And if you’re reading this — and I’m pretty sure you do read this, Boy That I Took it All Off For — I never told you about the hideous mole… So, now you know.

Since I grew up with this very European sensibility about sexuality and naked bodies and all that, I hoped that my kids would pick up on it and be okay and comfortable too. I didn’t want it to be a taboo subject, but I also didn’t want to be my mother, and I never sat my daughter Augie down for the “talk.” So, on Augie’s first date with a boy in the 6th grade, she and her BFF Cody went on a double-date with two boys. When they walked in the door later that night, Cody and I asked Augie questions. She answered honestly that he put his arm around her in the movie and he had his hand on her chest the whole night. That slick move, yawn and stretch, that dates back to the beginning of time, I guess will never go out of style. We gasped and screamed, “Augie, you’re not supposed to do that!!!!!!!!” Poor Augie was clueless and said how sorry she was, that she just didn’t know. My bad. Guess I should have been more like my mother and sat my daughter down for the birds and the bees talk.

On Sundays, my mother the skiksa would make my father a favorite dish. Matzo Brei. I never watched her make it, not my favorite dish. In the early 70′s, my mother moved to Palm Springs and until she died, she made this for my father whenever he visited her. Just found this Ruth Reichl recipe online.
Matzo Brei Recipe
4 matzos
4 large eggs
1 teaspoon salt, or to taste
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter

preparation

Crumble matzos into a large sieve placed over a bowl to catch crumbs, then hold sieve under running cold water until matzos are moist and softened but not completely disintegrated, about 15 seconds. Transfer to bowl with crumbs, then add eggs and salt and mix gently with a fork.
Heat butter in a 10- to 12-inch skillet over moderately high heat until foam subsides. Add matzo mixture and cook, stirring constantly, until eggs are scrambled and matzo has begun to crisp, about 3 minutes.