My newly acquired husband and I decided to transfer from Chicago to San Francsico in July 1978. Our wedding had been on February 18 of the same year. My 8-year-old, Stephen was already reeling from having another "man" in the house after six years of singing our theme song, “You and Me Against the World.” Although he was young enough to regard the move as an adventure into the vast unknown, he was very concerned about leaving what he knew.
The move across country was difficult for all of us. We were leaving our support systems -- my parents, his parents, Stephen's school, his neighborhood buddies -- and dealing with all the stresses that came with making such drastic life changes, all in one year.
After the first few months, we had finally tied up all the loose ends. We had located suitable housing, doctors, dentists, and after-school care, and we all started making friends outside the family.
T. B.'s work friend, Barry, happened to live in the same Eastbay town we settled in. He and his wife, Candy, had just had their first child, Brett, who was only several months old when the 1978 holidays rolled around. Barry invited us to their new home for Thanksgiving dinner. Since I had cooked for my extended family several years in a row prior to the move, I was delighted to accept the invitation to play a more minor role.
Thanksgiving Day in the San Francisco Bay Area falls just after the best weather months of the entire year in Northern California. Although there was a slight chance that the rainy season would start early, more often than not, the day would be spectacular. This one was gorgeous.
When taking a just-turned-nine-year-old to someone else's house for dinner, it is wise to have the pre-arrival "talk" several times before the big day. We went over the table manners, the use of the proper flatware, the placement and frequent use of the napkin. We reminded Steve of our rule about taking our own dirty dishes to the sink for scraping before putting them into the dishwasher.
Barry's wife Candy answered the doorbell. We had not met her before, but we weren't surprised to see a very attractive young woman as the door opened. Barry was quite handsome himself. She smiled sweetly and made us feel immediately welcome.
As we walked into the house, I noticed little Steve's nose twitching as he looked around the house in confusion. He began tugging on my shirt, wanting my attention. "What's that smell, Mommy?" I clucked at him to keep quiet in our own little code language, but I too detected the distinct odor of...FISH!
Unfortunately, Barry witnessed the mother/son exchange. "You smell our dinner, Steve. We're trying something new this year."
My eyes darted to meet my husband's baby blues. Oh-oh.
We were guided to our seats at the dinner table, where baby Brett was already pounding on the table of his high chair. Born bald as a cue, Brett's blond hair was just coming in. For some reason, though, his hair stood on end as if he had just put his finger in a light socket. No amount of smoothing -- which his mother kept trying -- would make that hair lay down.
"Candy, what's wrong with your baby's hair?" That would be young Stephen again. "He looks like a wild man!" Ha, ha, ha, h..... Crap. I pinched him lightly on his elbow; another one of our code elements.
Soon the hosts began to place the dishes on the table. There was a large platter with a huge fish on it. The head and eyes were still disturbingly
intact. The scaly skin was, well, pasty. It didn't look as if it had seen the inside of the oven at all. I kept my fingers pressed on that little elbow.
Several bowls of vegetables and a basket of hot rolls were added, water was poured into the goblets, and the hostess circled the table to take her seat. I noticed Stephen's eyes following her. As long as he wasn't talking...
"Candy, are you expecting?" T. B.'s face blazed crimson. I gasped, audibly, I'm pretty sure.
"Stephen! That is not an appropriate question to ask a lady!" I was talking quietly, but between clenched teeth. I wanted to snatch him by the shirt collar and flush him down the toilet.
"No, Stevie. I'm not expecting (I hope); I'm just fat."
Candy might not have been pregnant but the pause that followed this exchange certainly was. Finally, Barry burst out laughing. He had the kind of sense of humor that would find this faux pas hilarious. Candy? Not so much. She disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes. When she returned, her eyes seemed a little puffy.
As we left the disastrous scene of many child-perpetrated crimes, I stared out the car window, unable to believe what had just happened. Our feeble apologies did nothing at all to make us feel better about our little genius’s performance. T.B. and Steve broke the silence simultaneously.
"Lezlie/Mommy, will you please...?"
"Yes, I will cook Thanksgiving dinner for tomorrow. I knew we wouldn't have any leftovers if we went out, so I bought everything anyway. And, no, we will never accept an invitation for another holiday dinner until you are at least 18. Got it?"
The move across country was difficult for all of us. We were leaving our support systems -- my parents, his parents, Stephen's school, his neighborhood buddies -- and dealing with all the stresses that came with making such drastic life changes, all in one year.
After the first few months, we had finally tied up all the loose ends. We had located suitable housing, doctors, dentists, and after-school care, and we all started making friends outside the family.
T. B.'s work friend, Barry, happened to live in the same Eastbay town we settled in. He and his wife, Candy, had just had their first child, Brett, who was only several months old when the 1978 holidays rolled around. Barry invited us to their new home for Thanksgiving dinner. Since I had cooked for my extended family several years in a row prior to the move, I was delighted to accept the invitation to play a more minor role.
Thanksgiving Day in the San Francisco Bay Area falls just after the best weather months of the entire year in Northern California. Although there was a slight chance that the rainy season would start early, more often than not, the day would be spectacular. This one was gorgeous.
When taking a just-turned-nine-year-old to someone else's house for dinner, it is wise to have the pre-arrival "talk" several times before the big day. We went over the table manners, the use of the proper flatware, the placement and frequent use of the napkin. We reminded Steve of our rule about taking our own dirty dishes to the sink for scraping before putting them into the dishwasher.
Barry's wife Candy answered the doorbell. We had not met her before, but we weren't surprised to see a very attractive young woman as the door opened. Barry was quite handsome himself. She smiled sweetly and made us feel immediately welcome.
As we walked into the house, I noticed little Steve's nose twitching as he looked around the house in confusion. He began tugging on my shirt, wanting my attention. "What's that smell, Mommy?" I clucked at him to keep quiet in our own little code language, but I too detected the distinct odor of...FISH!
Unfortunately, Barry witnessed the mother/son exchange. "You smell our dinner, Steve. We're trying something new this year."
My eyes darted to meet my husband's baby blues. Oh-oh.
We were guided to our seats at the dinner table, where baby Brett was already pounding on the table of his high chair. Born bald as a cue, Brett's blond hair was just coming in. For some reason, though, his hair stood on end as if he had just put his finger in a light socket. No amount of smoothing -- which his mother kept trying -- would make that hair lay down.
"Candy, what's wrong with your baby's hair?" That would be young Stephen again. "He looks like a wild man!" Ha, ha, ha, h..... Crap. I pinched him lightly on his elbow; another one of our code elements.
Soon the hosts began to place the dishes on the table. There was a large platter with a huge fish on it. The head and eyes were still disturbingly
intact. The scaly skin was, well, pasty. It didn't look as if it had seen the inside of the oven at all. I kept my fingers pressed on that little elbow.Several bowls of vegetables and a basket of hot rolls were added, water was poured into the goblets, and the hostess circled the table to take her seat. I noticed Stephen's eyes following her. As long as he wasn't talking...
"Candy, are you expecting?" T. B.'s face blazed crimson. I gasped, audibly, I'm pretty sure.
"Stephen! That is not an appropriate question to ask a lady!" I was talking quietly, but between clenched teeth. I wanted to snatch him by the shirt collar and flush him down the toilet.
"No, Stevie. I'm not expecting (I hope); I'm just fat."
Candy might not have been pregnant but the pause that followed this exchange certainly was. Finally, Barry burst out laughing. He had the kind of sense of humor that would find this faux pas hilarious. Candy? Not so much. She disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes. When she returned, her eyes seemed a little puffy.
As we left the disastrous scene of many child-perpetrated crimes, I stared out the car window, unable to believe what had just happened. Our feeble apologies did nothing at all to make us feel better about our little genius’s performance. T.B. and Steve broke the silence simultaneously.
"Lezlie/Mommy, will you please...?"
"Yes, I will cook Thanksgiving dinner for tomorrow. I knew we wouldn't have any leftovers if we went out, so I bought everything anyway. And, no, we will never accept an invitation for another holiday dinner until you are at least 18. Got it?"
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