Old Reliable

It seems every family has a favorite restaurant, one they never tire of.

It could be the particular food, the servers, the ambiance, or the price that brings us back year after year - or all of the above.  It's a place the family relies on for birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, or even weddings.

If the restaurant survived the decades of recession, it's probably family-owned.   I'm not talking a pizza joint or a chain restaurant here, the kind we frequented after our sons' hockey games or baseball practices for a quick meal.  I'm talking a place where the tables are covered in white linen with cloth napkins and there is a fresh rose as the centerpiece, maybe a candle, too.

Outside Trieste, Italy

Our family loves all things Italian, especially the food, so we used to take our young sons to DiMeglio's in Woonsocket, R.I., to celebrate the end of school or a birthday of Charley's or mine.  At that point the boys still had birthday parties for their friends.

On the sidewalk outside DiMeglio's you could smell simmering tomatoes, basil, and freshly-shaved Parmesan. The spaghetti sauce (gravy) had simmered all day in a gargantuan gleaming  pot.  Portions covered eleven-inch white dinner plates, so we always had left-overs to take home.  It wasn't a big place, squeezed beyond some warehouses and near some mills, but the owners knew their customers.  Mrs. DiMeglio, in her apron, greeted us with a hug - we became so welcome that our older son was a frequent visitor to the chefs in the kitchen. Diners sat close to each other, getting into animated conversations that often necessitated raising our voices to be heard.


Then DiMeglio's closed.  The family who remained weren't interested in continuing the long hours, and the rent soared. We began going to the Old Canteen on Atwells Avenue in Providence, R.I.  A little more formal than DiMeglio's -  the paint was pink, soft music played, and a mural of Venice dominated one wall.

We celebrated graduations and engagements there with champagne and Veal a la Mike. We celebrated house completions and house sales.  We celebrated birthdays and births and book publications.  Last week Charley and I went back to reminisce over a marriage that's lasted 50 years.

Joe Marzilli, the owner, was no longer there.  His son greeted us as we opened the door from the front staircase on the street.  Sammy, the busboy in his sixties who always brought extra garlic bread to our table, was no longer there.

But the pink walls remained, and the candlelight, and the pink leather chairs. The waitstaff's smiles were there, though they were no longer exclusively male.  The sauteed escarole and spaghetti a la Canteen (with chicken livers and mushrooms) and artichokes in l'olio and garlic and my faorite Prosecco were still there, and the Italian families from "the Hill."  Our "old reliable" made time stand still, even though we hadn't.

A Birthday in School

In the late 70's when our older son celebrated his birthday in school, I stayed up the night before baking for the class.  I suppose I could have run to the only bakery in town and bought two dozen cupcakes or cookies or a sheet cake.  They certainly weren't available in the grocery store. But I didn't return to the work force till our older son turned ten and enjoyed exchanging recipes with the neighbors.

For one birthday, I made a sheet cake shaped like a rocket ship.  For another, a baseball diamond in honor of his Little League team.  Another was a hockey rink to celebrate his love of ice hockey. There were also Mickey Mouse cookies. I only used chocolate recipes, since that was his favorite flavor. If the other kids didn't like chocolate...well, they could pass.  Our younger son's birthday was during the summer, so he was out of luck in school.

Yesterday one of our granddaughters celebrated her birthday.  In her school there were no cakes, cupcakes, or cookies for the celebration.

There were too many allergies: dairy, citrus, nuts, eggs, soy, cocoa, lactose, gluten. We didn't even know such things existed in the '70's!  We discovered our sons' allergies when one was bitten by a bee and both sneezed uncontrollably on newly-mowed ball fields.

Yesterday our granddaughter dressed in her favorite shirt with a big star on the front. She had kept five pigtails in all night so her straight hair would curl.  She wore a new Peace necklace and a new starfish bracelet, both gifts.  She couldn't sit still during breakfast.

"How will you celebrate in school today?" I said.

"I get to sit in the teacher's chair at her desk," she said.  "And spin."

"Will it make you sick?"

"No, I'll do seven slow spins."

"Why seven?"

"Because that's how old I am today, silly grandma!  And I get to lead the class in a game."

"What game?"

"The clapping game, and then they all sing to me."

"Sounds like fun!  Will you eat anything?"

"No.  I don't like sweets anyway.  It's more fun to spin."

At least her mother didn't have to stay up baking.  And there wouldn't be any kids bouncing off the wall from a sugar high.

Ladies' Night Out

                                                                    

     I opened the envelope and saw shoes - beautiful shoes - all over the invitation.  I figured my friend was selling some brand I'd never heard of and probably wouldn't want.  Or maybe it was a fundraiser.
     But there was no mention of a sale or a charity.  The invitation asked me to come enjoy the company of my "sole mates," and to wear my funkiest, dreamiest, or most comfy shoes...to go wild, or not.  A girls' night out!
     I looked through my closet and brought out a shocking pink pantsuit and a blue spiky wig.  No blue or pink shoes in there, though.  I ran to PayLess.
     For eighteen dollars I found six-inch stilettos in a pink, blue, and white floral.  I pictured my back twisted like a pretzel after five minutes in those beauties.  But the immediate issue was getting them on over the balls of my bunions. 
     I went up a size and, like Cinderella, slid the shoe over my left foot.  For some reason, probably having to do with the right side of my brain being dominant, my left foot is one-quarter-inch larger than my right.  So going up a size was automatic, and  I'd brought along some knee-highs to make the slide less painful.  I held onto the shelving and tried to stand up.  Miraculously, I was able to take a few steps.  "Perfect," I thought, "as long as I don't have to stand to talk, drink, or eat."
     A photographer snapped shots of the most unique pairs among the fifty that stepped over the threshold that night.  Who would've guessed - our hostess had on my exact shoes!  Well, they weren't exactly the same, since she'd used a glue gun to encrust the six-inch heels in crystals.
     That was just the opener for our hostess' creativity.  The living room showcased magnificent pairs, including red sparklers resembling Dorothy's from "The Wizard of Oz."  Quotes around the room brought to mind Imelda Marcos' famous line during her exile, "They went into my closets looking for skeletons, but thank God, all they found were shoes, beautiful shoes."  Eight-and-one-half-by-eleven-inch renderings of Prada, Jimmy Choo, Chanel, Dior, Givenchy, Ferragamo, complete with peacock feathers and laces to the knee, surrounded the dining room.  A miniature shoe collection sat in the center of the table.  In the downstairs party room, tables were set for dinner with a single shoe and "Fifty Shades"-type poem as centerpieces.  We found our assigned seats and admired the red, purple, and gold footwear painted by our hostess on three-foot-by-three-foot canvases around the room.
     Fifty ladies in a conga line, wearing shoes they couldn't stand in (or not wearing them - I'd jettisoned mine under the table), created an indelible image. In a contest we guessed the most expensive pair on the shelves at Nordstrom.   The answer was a $3900 pair of Christian Louboutin's, but the winner didn't receive shoes for a prize.  She received wine - even better!  We formed a circle to pass decorated flip-flops to our right and left, over and over, until our hostess said, "What you hold in your hand right now is yours."  I ended up with pink ones, topped by floppy white roses.
     It was our hostess' birthday, and the two-tiered cake boasted a Cinderella-like crystal shoe on top.  But it was our hostess' daughter who made the night so memorable.
     "Our family's been through a lot in the last several years," she began, "and yet we feel so fortunate to celebrate Mom's birthday with you.  There's nothing more important in life than friendship, love, and the memories we create together...not our jobs, not our houses, not our clothes, not even our shoes!"
    

Grandma's Gifts

     When Jen's son, Sean, turned three, Jen's parents bought the toddler a Betta fish.  It looked like an ordinary fish but had beautiful fins and could breathe air from the water's surface. 
     "I know your schedule is hectic with Sean and work," Jen's mother said, "but you won't have to worry about taking care of it, as long as the dog can't reach it.  Just an occasional sprinkle of freeze dried shrimp in this little fish bowl.  It doesn't need filtration or a pump.  Besides, Sean will love watching it in his room."
     It was the kind of bowl Jen used when she made strawberry trifle.  "He can watch his dog in his room."
     Jen's mother found a beautiful tank for Sean's fish, now named Goldie.  "This tank goes perfectly with your living room!  Look at the chrome trim and the lovely waterfall."
     "Mom, I need a light for this and a pad and some rocks and stuff in there and a pump for the waterfall.  Besides, it's too big for Goldie."
     "So, we'll get her some company."
     "This is a Betta fish, Mom.  It's not an exotic $20 fish.  Goldie doesn't need a palace."
     Along with a supply of Amquel, Novaqua, aquarium salt, and a PH kit for the new tank, Jen's mother found a sucker fish to keep Goldie company.  "It's really a small catfish," she said, "but it will keep the tank clean.  I couldn't get a male Betta, because they're very aggressive toward their females.  I didn't think Sean would want to see that."
     Within two weeks, the sucker fish passed away.  So did the next sucker fish.  Goldie thrived.
     For Sean's fifth birthday, he received a lizard from Jen's parents.  The lizard came with its own tank, a heat lamp, a tank lamp, a tank pad, and a supply of wax worms and crickets.  "Oh my God!  My electric bill!" Jen said.  "Not to mention that crickets are going to be jumping all over the place."
     Sean hid in a closet and wouldn't come out till the lizard and his house were back in grandma's car.
                                                                

Pump It Up

"Pump it up" does not refer to an aerobic routine, body building, implanting anything foreign in the body, or even  balloons.

It is the name of a franchise where children under age ten go berserk.

Last weekend I attended my first "Pump It Up" party for our granddaughter's fifth birthday.  Twenty-six party-goers gathered in the lobby, where they ran from end to end, careening into each other.  A staff member herded them onto a carpeted area to watch a safety video.  No movie, no entrance.  Silence ensued - during the movie.  The attendant crowned our granddaughter "Princess" and asked her to lead the procession into the abyss.  First, though, they had to wait for a previous group to exit.  Parties were scheduled every half-hour.  While waiting, the attendant morphed into a cheerleader.  "Who's the Princess?" she yelled.

In unison:  "Emma!"

"Who??"

"Emma!!!" 

The kids were psyched into a frenzy.  Around their necks they wore glow sticks to identify them inside the black chasm. Strip lights outlined bouncy structures.  Parents and grandparents ran through the expanse to find their darlings, but the darlings had been swallowed.  "They'll be asleep by six tonight," I said to no-one.

There were four bouncy houses in this room (each held ten), an inflatable slide two stories high, riding toys for those under three years, and air hockey.  An attendant monitored each structure.

One of our grandsons came down the slide immediately behind a girl twice his size.  He tumbled into her at the bottom, where they both exploded in ludicrous laughter.  Then he rolled over the inflatable barrier and fell onto the mat below.  His neck tilted at an unnatural 90-degree angle.  I rushed to help him, sure he'd never move again.  He started back up the steps before I even reached the mat.

After thirty minutes, a loud speaker announced that party goers should line up to proceed to the next room.  More inflatable structures, but higher.  I was grateful for a bench near the exit, where I withdrew into my coat, tortoise-like.  It muffled the high-pitched squeals.

An interminable thirty minutes passed before the loudspeaker announced that party goers should line up to proceed to the "food court."  Here Emma took her place on an inflatable throne, her crown still intact.  Staff members served pizza, water bottles, pretzels, cheese doodles, and cake.  Did these kids really need more sugar??

"What do they charge for this?" I said to my daughter-in-law. 

"Four dollars a head for the hour and a half, up to twenty-six kids.  But then you have to select a food package."

"A food package?"

"Yes, and I had to bring our cake."

"What are the food packages?"

"You could select hot dogs and that would cost a lot more.  And you could add more hours for an additional cost per kid."

Why hadn't I thought of this?