My brother, five years my elder, and I, were remarkably well-behaved children. He was quite passive, liked to read, listen to classical music and watch “The Mickey Mouse Club” on TV. I was a little more obstreperous, but still knew how to mind my manners. I just wanted attention. Our mother was always frazzled, our father owned a car dealership, worked six days and two nights a week. We had a maid in our little Detroit house when our father was gone. She did all the cleaning, laundry and cooking. Even some childcare. Mother drove us to and from school and participated in ladies’ clubs while we were away.
During the quiet dinners when Dad wasn’t home, Rick teased me, to see if he could get me to giggle until milk came out of my nose, which he could and it did. We would also kick each other under the table. This would infuriate my mother. She never punished me. The threat was always, “Wait until your father gets home.” Then he would spank me for the infringement of good table manners. This left me with distain for my mother and fear of my father, who was actually a very gentle human being and I’m sure hated carrying out my mother’s edict.
I acted out in other ways as well. I took a pencil and scribbled on the wall paper in our Dining Room seen in the Featured Image (this photo taken at my 7th birthday party). An art gum eraser took care of the offense, but I am sure I got a terrible spanking for such a horrible crime.
The worst ever happened on our screened porch. We spent long summers there. The room came off the dining room and was a haven in our non-air conditioned house. We had rattan furniture out there and kept one canvas shade pulled permanently down, as it was behind the couch, offered screening from the near neighbors and was difficult to get at because of the furniture arrangement. The other two shades only came down during storms. But I took a brown crayon to this particular shade and scribbled on it. That was indelible. We didn’t have anything in the late 50s to erase crayon and the marks stayed until the day we sold the house in 1963. I don’t even remember how I was punished for such a crime. I’ve blocked it out entirely.
Freshman year in high school, the musical was “The Fantastics”, which it really was. I got called back for the female lead of Luisa, but the role went to a junior, which was fine. I was thrilled to be called back. With such a small cast, I worked on make-up. It was a great, friendly environment and, though still rather shy, I gladly went to the cast party in Bud’s basement. We all mingled and had fun. Claire’s older brother, home from college, paid a lot of attention to me. I was flattered and enjoyed the flirtation.
In 9th grade, I wasn’t yet dating. We went to “make-out” parties at friends’ houses, but always in large groups. We sat in darkened rooms, listened to music and mooshed our mouths together. I suppose the more adventurous did more, but I didn’t.
As the cast party wound down, Claire’s brother asked if he could escort me home. I lived literally around the corner, but the offer was too good to refuse, so of course, I didn’t. His car pulled up in front of my house and he pulled me in to him. We started to make out. Suddenly, I felt something push into my mouth. A primitive instinct took over and I bit down, hard. I could taste something salty, which I later realized was the blood coming from the tip of his tongue. He pulled back quickly, like the wounded animal he was. He didn’t take me up to my door. I went up, shamed that this was how I had responded to my first French kiss. I was sick to my stomach. I tasted the blood for days. I never saw the guy again.
Perhaps because he was the youngest of eight, raised by an older sister once his mother was institutionalized when he was 12, or maybe because he didn’t marry until he was 32; for whatever reason, my father liked to cook and was good at it. If we had Thanksgiving at home, he did all the cooking. He loved to hold barbecues and entertain friends in the summer. He was a sociable guy.
He loved to make breakfast or brunch for family or visitors and that often meant bringing out the griddle and making the “Sarason Secret Family Recipe” for the sweet batter. He added a little vanilla, some syrup, melted butter to grease the griddle and added the rest right into the batter, so the pancakes tasted terrific and were, indeed, his speciality and his delight to make. He made them for me any time I visited, even after I left home. He’d make them for us any time he visited us in Boston. They became my stock-in-trade also. The featured photo is in our first apartment in Waltham, MA, making brunch for some friends in the autumn of our first year of marriage. The griddle was part of a box of household necessities given by my two bridesmaids (you know who you are!). I still have it, though not much call to use it these days. Pancakes are not on my diet.
Dad making pancakes for David. Last visit, Oct, 1989.
My husband was a management consultant who traveled all the time, so I frequently did “breakfast for dinner” with my kids and took great delight in passing along their grandfather’s recipe for pancakes, particularly since he died when my boys were 4 and 8 months old, respectively. It was a way for me to talk about my dad and share his legacy with his grandsons who would never know him. The kids loved that the recipe was a “family secret”. One came home from nursery school fairly distraught one day. What was the problem, I enquired? He had spilled the beans and told the teachers about the secret family recipe. I assured him it was OK to share such a good thing with other people. His grandfather would be happy to know that his grandchild cared enough about his pancake recipe to share it with others he liked.
The pancake recipe continues. Feel free to eat and share. Ken Sarason would be pleased.
