Recipes for Life (3 page)

Daddy, Charlie, Mama, and me happy to be in Hollywood.

The little boy and his mother were quarantined, so she could not even leave to go to the store. The neighbors ignored them, but our mother was far too compassionate to stand by and just watch them suffer. So, despite warnings, Mom would often cook meals for them and deliver them herself. In her heart, she believed she was safe and needed to do something to help.

Sadly, she was wrong. Polio was a rampant and deadly disease. Suddenly, our mother started complaining of severe aches in her body. The only thing that my grandfather could think to do was to put hot towels on her back directly from a large pot of boiling water. I can remember her crying out in pain because they were so hot. He did this several times a day. Later, the doctors said that this probably prevented her from having permanent paralysis.

Despite our grandfather’s efforts, the next thing we knew an ambulance came and took our mother to the hospital. They said she had polio, but was very lucky in that it only affected her left shoulder and arm, and her right leg.

In the hospital, each day they would lower her into a pool, where, miraculously, she could move her arms and legs. She promised the nurses that she would do the Scottish hop (a dance step she knew, having been a professional dancer) down the hallway on the day she left.

While our mother was in the hospital, my sister and I were sent to separate homes to be taken care of. The families were strangers to us, but kind. Visiting days from Daddy were wonderful until he had to leave. Meanwhile, he was busy arranging for us to move into a new house in North Hollywood.

I remember the day my father, sister, and I moved into our first new home, and even though it was a small, two-bedroom in the Valley—with no lawn, just sand in front and back—we thought it was a palace.

A few months after we moved in, my mother was finally ready to leave the hospital. All the nurses, doctors, and interns lined the hallway and applauded her as she danced out the door. Thank God. Prayers are answered!

Our mother came home to our brand-new house. Needless to say it was quite a joyous occasion for all.

W
HEN
I
BEGAN
writing this book, I tried to remember when I first realized that even a modest, home-cooked meal can bring a person joy. One of my earliest memories of this is my mother’s Hot Dog Stew.

It must have been around 1951, during the Korean War, because we often had a house full of servicemen to feed. A cousin on leave started bringing by a few of his buddies for dinner, which soon became a regular event at our house. Mom loved being able to do something special for these young men. Most were far from home and missing their own families. But we had very little money, so Mom cooked up her Hot Dog Stew.

The good old Hot Dog Stew days are the only entertaining I remember my family doing, besides Thanksgiving and Christmas. When I was fifteen, my dad passed away and my mother went on Social Security, so there would be no more parties. But the memories of how much everyone loved my mom for cooking for them is still fresh in my mind and heart.

Like in most families, no one sees things the same way. Both my sister Charlie and I have our own versions of our mother’s hot dog stew. And to keep peace in the family, I am sharing both versions with you.

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 pound hot dogs (preferably all pork), cut into 1½-inch slices at an angle

1 large green pepper, cut into 1½-inch pieces

1 large onion, cut into 1½-inch pieces

1 (16-ounce) can whole potatoes, drained and sliced ¼-inch thick

1 (28-ounce) can whole tomatoes

1 tablespoon dried oregano

1½ teaspoons garlic salt

Put the olive oil into a large Dutch oven or heavy casserole pan over medium-high heat. Add the hot dog pieces and cook, stirring often, about 6 minutes, until the skins are crispy and browned. Remove from the pan and set aside.

Put the pepper and onion in the oil remaining in the pan, and cook until the onions and peppers are translucent, about 6 minutes. Add the potatoes and cook until all the vegetables are lightly browned, about 6 more minutes.

Return the hot dogs to the pan. Pour the tomato juice from the can into the pan. Remove any cores or skin from the whole tomatoes, then pull them into pieces as you place them in the pan (your hands are the best tool for this job!). Sprinkle with oregano and garlic salt.

Simmer it slowly, covered, on top of the stove for 15 to 20 minutes.

Ladle it into bowls and serve with your favorite toasted garlic bread.

Here is what Charlie does differently:

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Hold back the sliced potatoes until after the stew is cooked. Put the cold potatoes into the bottom of a large Pyrex baking dish and pour the stew (that has cooked for only 20 minutes) over the potatoes. Mix the potatoes into the stew, then generously sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Charlie bakes it for 30 minutes and swears her version is better . . . sisters.

M
Y OLDER SISTER
Charlie and I are only eighteen months apart. She has always been strong-willed, extremely bright, and incredibly loving. To this day, Charlie is one of my closest and dearest friends. My younger sister, Kat (short for Kathy), was born a full decade after us. Despite the age difference, the three of us couldn’t be closer.

Me, Charlie, and baby sister Kat make three.

When Charlie and I were kids, we held hands everywhere we went. Shy, I would always hide behind her when guests came to our house. She always took charge, especially over the tiny bedroom we shared, until she left at fifteen to marry her childhood sweetheart. Many times Charlie drew an imaginary line down the middle of the room to keep the peace. It worked. Today, she and I are neighbors on the same property in Washington State. Mama would be proud.

After we left Hollywood for North Hollywood, we didn’t entertain as much. The long fold-up buffet table we’d used for Christmas and Thanksgivings sat in the garage collecting dust. That is, until one summer when I was nine, Charlie came up with a brilliant idea. We would put on a performance in our backyard.

We talked Mom into letting us use a beautiful blue velvet cape she wore from back when she and my father were professional ballroom dancers. We retrieved the cape from an old trunk, then we set the buffet table up as a stage in the yard, next to the garage. Charlie was to be the star, and she wore the cape for her performance. My job was to sit on the roof and sprinkle her with torn pieces of paper meant to look like snow while she sang “Winter Wonderland.” All Charlie remembers of her first performance was my mom, rosary beads in her hand, praying that I didn’t fall off the roof.

I guess you could say I started at the top.

Now, here we are. . . . All grown up.

I
HAVE SWEET
memories of our family gathering for music nights with Mama, Daddy, Grandma, Grandpa, Charlie, and me. There were banjos, ukuleles, and singing. Charlie was an excellent singer. She got As in Glee Club, which obviously gave her the authority to announce to everyone, “Linda’s off-key again!” And I was. Always. This is when I first learned to lip-sync, a talent that would later serve me well.

Sometimes during these evenings Mama and Daddy would play records from the 1940s and they would teach us dance steps like the tango, the cha-cha-cha, or the two-step.

I remember one time Mama got up at four in the morning to give me a waltz lesson for a part I was doing that day. I don’t remember the project, just my mother’s sweet dancing eyes as she led me around the living room floor. I wish those beautiful times could have lasted.

Sadly, the sweet memories became mixed with painful ones. My parents began having problems in their relationship and they both turned to alcohol to escape.

There was no way as I teenager I could see how this would later affect me and the choices I would make in my life. Unraveling these threads has been profoundly revealing. After their drinking started, life as we knew it began to dissolve.

When I was fifteen, both my parents became seriously ill and were hospitalized at the same time. My dad was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. There were no hospices in those days, so when they sent him home to die, Charlie moved back in with her husband, Art, to take care of him. Watching Daddy suffer and being powerless to stop it is one of the saddest and most painful times I have ever known in my life.