If you think this is about food, you’re wrong. Banana shrimp pancakes are disgusting. Well, probably. I’ve never eaten anything like that because, even if it existed, it sounds positively hideous. Nope, this entry “about” banana shrimp pancakes has nothing to do with food at all, but it’s about privilege, memories, and grief. And maybe some other stuff.
When we four kids were growing up, we had one Mom, one Stepdad, and one Dad in our family. Mom and Stepdad were the ones who raised us. Dad, may he rest in peace, was the fun one, the guy who showed up for birthdays, Christmases, graduations, and so on. Once when we were visiting our Dad in the summer we ate something called “Chocolate Covered Pork Oil rolls.” No, we didn’t, because, like banana shrimp pancakes, that would be revolting. We did, however, joke about eating them. Chocolate covered pork oil rolls were born from the idea that once you are so disgustingly full after a big meal, the next thing to do after your IHOP breakfast is go get you some “chocolate covered pork oil rolls.” Obviously.
“Chocolate covered pork oil rolls” emerged from my Dad’s excellent, if strange, sense of humor. (Apple. Tree). In our collective imagination, we created other delicacies like “clam ice cream,” and, of course, “banana shrimp pancakes.” We made them up when were visiting my Dad, probably when he lived in Marina Del Rey, in the very same apartment complex as Dick Van Dyke. I know this because I saw him first hand, with my very own eyes. Mr. Van Dyke seemed nice. We didn’t talk to him, though, because we were just getting onto the elevator and he was getting off the elevator, so that would just be weird. He didn’t get back on the elevator to ride up with us, either, which is a good thing, because that would have been even weirder. I believe my Dad lived on the penthouse of this fine, fancy apartment building because he had a lot of money then. By the time he died, sadly, he lived in an RV that his friend was letting him borrow. Nice friend, though.
When he referred to them, my Dad called them “The Salad Days” which meant a time of prosperity and wealth. I always thought that is a strange expression, because it would be more accurate to call them “The Steak and Lobster Days,” because that is much more likely what rich people eat. Even if they are “The Salad Days,” shouldn’t they at least be called “The Caesar Salad Days?” Today, I am not sure very many people know what a genuine Caesar salad is: the beautiful, decadent first course served in a fancy restaurant. It’s made tableside by the waiter, waitress, or server (choose your generational preference). Nowadays, most places wouldn’t even serve a true Caesar, at least not without a detailed warning that “this contains eggs.” Now you can get a “Caesar salad” at Denny’s.
Back in the “Salad Days,” as my Dad called them, we did go to fancy places that serve real Caesar salad– and steak and lobster. He also took to us to IHOP and other places that normal, not-rich people go as well. You can only take your four kids to fancy places so many times while they are visiting. Dad had us in the summers, Mom the rest of the time. (It was my Mom and Stepdad who raised us after my Mom and Dad got divorced at some point in the 70s). I was just five when my Mom and Dad got divorced, so I didn’t really understand much. To me their divorce just meant some changes. Mostly I was excited because we four kids were going to move to Florida with my Mom. Plus we were going to have a garage sale, and that seemed fun!
The reason we were moving to Florida was because Mom was so broken-hearted –and utterly broken in general. She decided to move us from California to the furthest place she possibly could without leaving the United States. (I’m glad she didn’t choose Maine). My siblings were 14, 12 and 7 at the time, so I can imagine that it was the hardest for them, especially the two eldest. I was just excited about the garage sale and moving to Florida. I was probably hoping we would go to Disneyworld, too.
I do remember getting off the plane. The air felt hot and wet, and I couldn’t quite understand why the air itself felt wet, even when it wasn’t raining. My Mom explained humidity to me, which for the uninitiated is…when the air itself feels wet. Even when it isn’t raining. After Florida, I never experienced humidity again until moving to Wisconsin roughly 20 years later. The air felt wet there, too. When I first moved to Madison, Wisconsin, I remember a taxi driver who warned me that, “the only thing worse than a Wisconsin winter is a Wisconsin summer.” He was right, and I moved back to California after one year.
Rewinding back to my childhood, where the divorce came as a complete shock to my mother. It was more like an announcement than a discussion, especially when it was followed quite soon after by Dad’s marriage to a woman many years his junior. One of the family stories Mom has told us over the years is that when Dad informed her that they were getting divorced, she asked him which of the two kids he planned to keep while she took the other two. She didn’t mean it, of course, but she said it. I always thought that was gutsy of her, heart-shattered though she was. Way to go, Mom. Today as an adult, I know in my bones which of us are the favorite of the four she would have kept, if they really had split us kids up, which they didn’t. I can’t guess the other child, though. Interesting.
Also interesting was that I once asked my Dad why he had wanted to divorce my mom; he told me it was because he knew it wasn’t working out. He wanted her to be able to have another love and remarry while she was still young enough, whatever that means. Eventually she did remarry and so far Mom and my Stepdad have been married for 39 years, while my Dad, on the other hand, remarried twice. Mom won.
My Dad’s marriage to his second wife would be short-lived, even though she was nice, pretty, and young. Or maybe it was short-lived because she was nice, pretty, and young. My Mom had also been nice, pretty, and young–just not as young as his soon-to be second wife. My Dad’s bride-to-be was Catholic. My future Stepmother asked my Dad to have his marriage to my Mom annulled so they could get married in a Catholic Church. Dad asked my Mom for the annulment, but she declined. She refused to grant the annulment for a lot of reasons, not least because my Dad, um, had four children with her and we did, in fact, exist, as their marriage of 14 years had. My Dad and my first Stepmother were married not too long after his divorce with my mom was completed. I don’t know how long my Dad and his second wife were married, not long, I know that; I could probably ask her the specifics on Facebook –but I’ve never “friended” her.
My memories of Stepmom #1 are that she was kind, even sweet (except for asking my Dad to annul his 15 year marriage to my Mom). Stepmom #1 never scolded us or raised her voice toward us. She never used “vulgar” language, except once in a while for dramatic effect. We thought it was hilarious when she swore. It cracked us up, like those odd videos where toddlers use the most profane language, the juxtaposition of their youth and their foul mouths oddly hysterical. So it was with Stepmom #1.
She must have been very young indeed, or at least immature, because one time I told her that I thought I was supposed to hate her, but I didn’t hate her. I liked her. I explained that in all the children’s books I’d read, stepmothers were evil and cruel. After once confessing to her that I was conflicted, or at least confused, because I actually liked her, she sobbed herself to sleep and cried all night. I was 7. She was supposed to be a grown up. I’m not sure why she cried so much, maybe it was her Catholic guilt; I’m equally uncertain why my Dad told his daughter (me) about her reaction. That seems like poor judgment on his part. Not only was there nothing I could do to help an adult manage her feelings, but her reaction was none of my business. There probably was guilt on her part for breaking up a family with four children. (She didn’t do it single-handedly, of course). She probably should have had plenty of guilt to be honest. Annulment? Ridiculous.
Dad and Stepmom #1 lived together in the Dick Van Dyke Marina Del Rey apartment. She wanted to be an actress, so she auditioned for roles while my Dad went to work. (My Dad was a great guy, but he was also a workaholic). Stepmom #1 also wanted to be a model. She had actually met my Dad when she was a cover model for his magazine. His magazine was not pornographic; it was a legitimate publication for people in the trucking industry, truckers in particular. Stepmom #1 went to photo shoots and auditions and did, in fact, get some roles in commercials. One time she landed a part in a beer commercial (they could still do those back then). She was cast in a Christmas beer commercial and had to wear a sexy Santa hat. During the commercial, “all” she had to do was say one line, pick up her glass of beer, and take a sip. The problem with that was, just like her non-swearing innocence, she didn’t drink, either. By the end of the shoot, one sip at a time after one sip at a time, she was drunk. She came back from the commercial and told us that she was more than a little tipsy. Actually, she was hammered!
I remember seeing her on TV in her Santa hat. I watched her drink her small sips of beer. I felt a surge of pride and excitement in my little girl heart. “Hey, that’s my Stepmom!” I don’t remember ever seeing her in other commercials or parts after that one Santa hat beer commercial. Maybe she never “acted” again, after the Hollywood bigwigs had heard all about her and how she got so drunk so easily, I dunno. I doubt that was why. It is unlikely that getting drunk easily would have been an issue. In fact, it might have made her more desirable if people knew about her “cheap date” drinking skills, or lack thereof. I’m sure that Harvey Weinstein and others would have happy to take advantage of her, um, naivety. I never saw her in anything again. She and my Dad were divorced after a short marriage. Years later I learned that she had remarried and had children. I’m glad for her. Presumably she always wanted a family of her own, but my Dad never wanted any more kids besides us. Last I heard she had gone into real estate.