“Dad’s making Teenie Weenies for dinner tonight!” My little brother could hardly contain himself. There were few dinners we loved more. Our dad was more engineer than chef. Meals were less about nutrition and more about invention. Teenie Weenies were hot dogs cut into little rounds and then pierced with colored toothpicks. We would dip each penny round slice into a dollop of mustard and pop them into our mouths like chewy lollipops.
Then there was school lunch, which in the winter had utilitarian purpose. During breakfast, Dad would hard-boil an egg so it was ready just before I headed out to walk to my bus stop. I was in sixth grade then and the walk was pretty far. He’d pass me the hot egg and tell me to put it inside my gloved hand to keep me warm as I walked over the snow-packed road to join the kids at the stop. Hours later it would be cooled down and I’d have it for lunch, peeling off the shell and dipping the bulbous end into the little salt packet he threw into my lunch bag before taking a bite.
It was nerdy and clever all at once. I didn’t brag about my warm hands for fear of getting made fun of. I wasn’t the most popular girl in school. Buck teeth, freckles and short, curly red hair made me a perfect target. That bus stop was the easiest place for attacks. Once a kid bought a carton of eggs and threw some at me. I don’t remember what prompted the insults. Maybe I said something. Maybe they were just the “bad boys” and I was unlucky to be at the same bus stop. I felt like such an outsider in those days. It was hard to make friends. I was an awkward adolescent.
Dinnertime only encouraged me to be more intellectual than cool. If my little brother got on my nerves at dinner and we started fighting, dad would admonish us. “If you really want to win the argument, grab the Thesaurus and look up “stupid”. Whoever gets the book first, wins.” We’d jump from our seats and beat it to the den where one of us would grab the book off the shelf and start hurling names like “Greenhorn”, “Wooden Spoon” “Pusillanimous”. And soon our argument would devolve into hilarity at the sound of the craziest insults we’d ever heard.
Dad relied on a little black cookbook of recipes organized by the days of the week. Monday was London Broil, Tuesday was Flank Steak. Wednesday was Teenie Weenies because mom and dad were in a Wednesday night bowling league and dinner was quick and fun. But the best by far were the Saturday night Swanson TV dinners we got to eat on snack trays in front of the television. That’s when mom and dad went out for their “date” each week and we got to watch Star Trek eating greasy fried chicken and mashed potatoes separated into compartments shaped out of aluminum foil.
In the summer of 1968, my brother and I spent a week visiting our nanny in Connecticut. Nanny was our mother’s mother, from Frankfurt, Germany. She spoke English with a Yiddish accent and doted on us whenever she could. Chocolate milk with honey, chopped liver on Jewish rye bread smeared with chicken fat, roast chicken and mashed potatoes and Harlequin ice cream for dessert. This particular visit was different however. Dad came to pick us up and took the two of us out, for a talk. He drove us to the Merritt Canteen, a favorite spot for Kuhn’s hot dogs with the works — sauerkraut and onions, relish and mustard. We picked up our dogs out of the cardboard box, wrapped in tissue paper, peeling it back for that first juicy bite. And then came the reason for the excursion and the hot dogs. “Mom had surgery this week to remove a tumor.” My mind raced to television shows. I started to cry. The only tumor I’d ever heard of were the ones that Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare operated on. “A brain tumor?” I asked. “No,” dad said. “It was in her arm. She’ll be in a sling when you see her. I didn’t want you to be surprised when you came home.” And that was that. He was calm and sincere and when we were sure mom would be alright, we finished our hot dogs and headed home.
Turns out it was breast cancer, and malignant. For the next six months, Mom was in and out of the hospital for more surgery until there was nothing more they could do. I was 12 years old when she died. My brother was 10. By then, mealtime had become more of a chore than an adventure. Casseroles and unrecognizable dishes from neighbors, take-out and TV dinners dotted our weeknights. Dad would still make meals from time to time and he’d call me from work after I would get home from school to ask that I put a couple of potatoes in the oven so they’d be ready when he got home. The three of us became a unit unto ourselves. Sometimes we would huddle on the royal blue carpeted floor of our living room and complain and giggle about the myriad meals people would bring us. “How do people eat that stuff?” we wondered out loud. Cream of mushroom soup poured over dry chicken thighs with peas. Tuna noodle casseroles and canned beans. We tossed a lot of it.
We longed for the Thursday night Shake and Bake chicken with crinkle cut fries and fresh peas or the Friday night roasted chicken that dad would pick up from Gerard Farms on his way home from work, along with their homemade stuffing and gravy, savory and soft with tarragon and lots of butter. Dinners would never be the same.
