by Dawn Lerman
On the day of the trip, we went to Hertz Rent-a-Car, where we rented a brand-new white Pontiac convertible that had that new car smell, and loaded up our worn duffel bags that my mom had sent to the Laundromat so that we would look as good as new. As we drove to the Hamptons in our beach clothes, my parents kept arguing because my mom, who was in charge of directions, kept navigating us the wrong way.
The wind was blowing hard through my hair as my mother kept rolling down the window, sticking her head out, and screaming to cars speeding past us for directions. I watched the map fly out of her hand, landing on the windshield of the delivery truck to the right of us. My father slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into the swerving truck. He began spouting words at the top of his lungs that I would never dare repeat.
When we made it alive off the freeway, my parents became calmer, admiring the quaint churches, old houses, and windmills planted on village greens. Nearing the Reynolds’ home, we passed farmlands and riding stables and saw horses running free—and noticed that the homes were no longer houses but estates. Beyond them, you could see the water stretched into the horizon as my dad pulled the top down. Inhaling the salted air pushed any remembrance of Manhattan and the unpleasant car ride into the distance.
Arriving disheveled after a long drive in traffic, we were greeted by Ruth, Bob’s wife, who was wearing a neatly pressed Pucci cocktail dress adorned with a single stand of pearls. Tucking her perfectly coiffed hair behind her ears, she offered us iced tea with orange slices, which she poured from a tall glass pitcher and served on a silver tray. We drank on the deck, and her three sons, dressed in blue button-down Oxford shirts, not tucked in but hanging over their khaki shorts, asked my sister and me if we wanted to head to the beach to collect seashells while the adults were having their aperitif. My mom looked uncomfortable as all the grown-ups smoked cigarettes and drank shaken martinis—my mother never smoked or drank. My mother always said, “I am happy enough; I do not need anything to enhance my mood.”
Looking us all up and down, Mrs. Reynolds suggested we freshen up for the barbeque and congregate precisely at six-forty-five for dinner and a small fireworks display. The big one would be in town the next night. Relieved that we would be having a backyard barbeque, we went to our room, where my sister and I put on our new hot pants and matching T-shirts, and my dad put on his favorite jeans that now required a belt to stay up. My mother put on her new favorite skintight patriotic flag shirt that made her look like a blow-up Betty Boop doll.
Coming to the table, we saw that it was like no backyard party we had ever been to. There were several beautifully set tables and many guests had arrived over the last hour. Waiters were passing around trays of huge shrimps, rumaki, chicken livers wrapped with chestnuts and bacon, and celery stuffed with blue cheese. On the tables were fragrant bouquets of fresh-cut flowers from Mrs. Reynolds’s garden. There were plates stacked on top of plates and more silverware than I had ever seen on one table—silverware to the left of the plates, to the right of the plates, and above the plates. The napkins were folded like fans and rested in shiny sterling silver rings. There were crystal glasses filled with water, crystal glasses filled with wine, and crystal glasses filled with milk for the kids. For dinner, we each had our own one-and-a-half-pound lobster and as many helpings as we wanted of mussels and steamers caught that day, as well as white sweet corn from the local farm stand. The kids and the grown-ups were served the exact same food, but we were not seated at the same table. Parents and kids sitting together was a no-no, according to the Reynolds’s son Billy, whom I was seated next to.
Billy, who was wearing a jacket and a tie, was only a year older than me but had the demeanor of a grown man. When I asked, “Aren’t you hot in that stuffy outfit?”
He responded, “Reynolds men always wear a tie and a blazer at dinner each and every night. It is as important as arriving to the table on time, sitting up straight, and being ready to discuss whatever pressing political event the New York Times is writing about.” He motioned me to unfold my napkin and put it on my lap before I ate and explained what all nine pieces of silverware were used for while matter-of-factly conveying the story of how he once was unmannerly. “My fork fell, so I wiggled under the table to fetch it. When I came back up, my mother shot daggers at me. She rang her bell and the nanny rushed to her assistance, banishing me from the table. I never made that indiscretion again.”
I followed Billy’s lead, trying to imitate the way he ate, spoke, and sat. Being removed from the table was the last thing I wanted. He showed me the proper way to pull the meat from a cracked lobster claw in one smooth piece—not the easiest task, but well worth the effort.
Hearing the roaring laughter, I peered over to see how my parents were managing. They looked captivated while Mr. Reynolds told his favorite agency stories and quoted his favorite author, Nelson Algren. “Never play cards with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom’s. Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.”
My dad appreciated Mr. Reynolds’s dry sense of humor, always saying he was the best boss, taking care of each and every person who worked for him as if they were family members. He had even been known to take employees shopping at his favorite men’s shop, J. Press on Madison Avenue, if he thought that the way they dressed was hindering them from advancing in their career. My dad and his fellow creatives called McCann “Camelot” since working there felt like a fantasy kingdom, with Mr. Reynolds as their benevolent leader. He was equally kind as he was conservative, with his Episcopalian Reformed Jewish Rules for Life—“One should always dress for dinner, never eat a salad with a dinner fork, and the cocktail hour is sacred.”
Licking my fingers, about to explode from all the delicious food, I noticed Billy glaring at me. I kept going on about how wonderful all the food was, amazed that I was the only one talking about it. How could no one be discussing the sweetness of each lobster bite or how the steak melted in your mouth—easy to cut, not chewy, and so flavorful, no need for ketchup—which I noticed wasn’t on the table, anyway. The other kids at the table seemed unfazed as they ate and talked with poise. They remained neat while my sister and I were covered with melted butter and lobster juice in spite of wearing lobster bibs.
Returning to my room, sticky, greasy, and very content, I tried to recall every ingredient in each plate of food we had—the wine and the shallots in the mussels, the parsley in the sweet melted butter for the lobster, and the burgundy mushroom sauce on the steak. Reliving every glorious bite, I fell asleep to the sounds of the melodious, crashing waves.
The next day was equally as pleasant, filled with tons of physical activity and more wonderful food: wild strawberries, cantaloupe slices, and Eggs Benedict for breakfast, and for lunch crab salad with skinned tomatoes and key lime pie for dessert. My dad seemed to be enjoying himself immensely during meals, not being shy about asking for seconds and thirds of pie as he forfeited the tomatoes. He stated, “I need to leave room for the good stuff.” But it was during a couple of rounds of tennis that my dad seemed to get winded and needed to sit out. He was having a hard time keeping up with Mr. Reynolds and his friends, most of them more than fifteen years his senior.
On the last night of our stay, Mr. Reynolds put his arm around my dad with the utmost concern and general compassion and suggested that perhaps my dad would benefit from the agency paying for a weight loss camp, where he not only would be on a structured eating plan but would learn to play golf and get to take daily jogs. Losing weight would not only help his health but would help secure his job and the agency image. My dad was touched by his boss’s generosity and hurt by his bluntness. He had worked so hard over the past couple of weeks losing some quick weight, but his diet, The Hampton Diet, which he had thought would be a quick fix, was unsustainable. My dad said he would consider Mr. Reynolds’s generous offer, but he had researched a couple of diets on his own that he would like to try before he made such
an extreme commitment.
During the drive back, my parents were very quiet and I could tell my dad was hurt, and a part of his spirit had been broken. As much as I wanted to help him, I remained silent—hoping we would be invited back, and that my first lobster dinner would not be my last.
Diet-Friendly Jell-O Chiffon Pie
Yield: 8 servings
1 (3-ounce) box sugar-free Jell-O, strawberry flavor
1⁄4 cup boiling water
12 ounces sugar-free, low-fat strawberry yogurt
1 container sugar-free Cool Whip
1 graham cracker crust
Fresh strawberries, sliced
Dissolve the Jell-O in the boiling water. Stir 2 minutes until the Jell-O is completely dissolved. When partially set, fold in the yogurt and then the Cool Whip and blend with a hand mixer. Pour into the graham cracker crust. Refrigerate overnight. Garnish with fresh strawberries before serving.
Lo-Cal Gazpacho Soup
Yield: 2 servings
16 ounces V8 vegetable juice
3⁄4 cup peeled and chopped cucumber
1⁄8 cup chopped green pepper
1⁄8 cup chopped onion
1⁄2 tomato, seeded and chopped
1⁄2 tablespoon chopped garlic
1⁄2 teaspoon lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste
Place all the ingredients in a blender and puree. Cover and chill for at least 1 hour.
Date Nut Bread Infused with Taster’s Choice
Yield: 1 loaf
1 cup pitted and chopped dates
1 teaspoon baking soda
3⁄4 cup freshly brewed Taster’s Choice coffee
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1⁄2 cup sugar
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts
11⁄2 cups flour
1⁄2 teaspoon salt
Butter or oil for greasing the loaf pan
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 5 x 9-inch loaf pan. Place the dates in a small bowl and sprinkle the baking soda over them. Pour the hot coffee over the dates. Set aside and let the mixture cool. In a big bowl, mix the butter, sugar, and beaten egg until well blended. Stir in the vanilla and nuts. Pour in the flour and salt, then fold in the date mixture. Mix well and pour into the prepared loaf pan.
Bake for 50 minutes, or until a toothpick is inserted and comes out clean. Cool before removing from the pan.
Note: Cream the butter and sugar. Not overmixing is the key to making this bread moist. The more air bubbles, the lighter the bread will be.
8
My Month at the Fat Farm
Salmon and Leeks Baked in Parchment Paper, Duke University Weight-Loss Rice
My dad was an expert at dieting and losing weight, but unfortunately he could never keep it off for long and often found himself caught in a vicious cycle of yo-yo diets. “I think I tried every diet in the world,” he would say. “I even tried the champagne and disco diet, dancing and drinking for forty-eight hours straight. I didn’t lose weight, but I had a hell of a time.”
He consistently tried every diet that came along in search of the magic bullet that would make him thin, keep him thin, and satisfy his constant hunger. He restricted food, weighed his food, counted calories, and tried eating with chopsticks. He even attended EST meetings to help explore the root of his obsession. While each and every plan worked in the short term, after a couple of weeks, the calling of moist chocolate cake, cheesy pizza, and bowls of saucy pasta got the best of him. When his boss, Mr. Reynolds, initially suggested that perhaps he needed a little extra support and a little more monitoring, like a fat camp where he could live for a while, my dad resisted—determined to tackle the problem without leaving New York City.
Frustrated with his fluctuating weight, which was fluctuating mostly in the wrong direction, my dad sought out the assistance of the popular diet guru Dr. Atkins. His town house, where he saw patients, was close to my dad’s office and around the corner from the famous Friars Club, where Frank Sinatra had recently sworn my dad in as an official member—making him feel like a celebrity himself. My dad would pop into the private club on East 55th Street with the famous clientele for a power lunch or dinner—some days both. Dr. Atkins would personally take the liberty of phoning the club to place my dad’s order, giving the kitchen strict instructions on how everything should be prepared. My dad had done many favors for Dr. Atkins, such as helping him with great marketing strategies so Dr. Atkins made sure to return his kindness, giving him extra care.
As with all my dad’s diets, the first couple weeks went miraculously well. He lost eight pounds in a single week on the Atkins plan, eating bun-less, juicy, rare cheeseburgers wrapped in bacon and oversized omelets topped with sour cream and chives. The Atkins Diet was high-fat, high-protein, and low-carbohydrate, which worked for a while since my dad loved bacon and heavy cream; but soon the lure of warm, yeasty baskets of fresh bread and rum-infused pecan pie was too hard to resist.
The agency could no longer ignore my dad’s appearance. He was now a creative director on high-profile food accounts like Coke, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Nestlé. They wanted the clients to be as comfortable with his looks as they were with his writing, so his boss took it upon himself to arrange, through the human resources department, a six-month paid medical leave for my dad to attend Duke University’s “Fat Farm” in Durham, North Carolina, where he would be expected to drop a significant amount of weight.
My dad loved creating slogans almost as much as he loved eating. He begged to work while he was on leave—as writing came as naturally as breathing to him. But Mr. Reynolds told him to commit his efforts when he was away to exercising and going to all the wonderful classes that the Fat Farm offered: How to Control Cravings, Water Aerobics, How to Love Yourself.
“You will not be alone. I have researched this thoroughly. There will be a team of doctors, dieticians, psychologists, and exercise specialists to help you reach your goals.”
My dad was touched by his boss’s genuine interest. Mr. Reynolds was the dad my father never had, and his support and his belief in him was paramount to his success. My dad wanted to lose the weight as much for Mr. Reynolds as he did for himself. But my dad was not used to taking charity, and he could never remember a time that he was not working. He even used to sing and dance on the street before he was old enough to apply for a real job, so he would have pocket money to buy a Vienna hot dog with the works—mustard, celery salt, hot peppers, relish, tomatoes, and pickles on a steamed poppy seed bun. My dad talked about Chicago hot dogs with the passion of a born-again Christian talking about Jesus. “You never spoil those babies with ketchup,” he would say, smacking his lips.
Convinced that he would obsess about everything he could not eat if he did not have another outlet, he eventually convinced his creative team to put him on the TaB account. The zero-calorie soda was something that wouldn’t be off-limits on his diet plan. He could drink unlimited amounts while he was dreaming up brilliant copy and eating rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
My dad was to do all the phases of the “Rice Diet Plan,” from detox to maintenance, which meant he would be away from home for six months. My dad traveled a lot, though never for a half a year, but he was ready to battle his demons, and the structure and support of the boot camp seemed to be a needed step in his life, for both his health and his career. Duke was not a spa to help you lose a couple of pounds, but an intense, controlled environment designed to produce rapid weight loss. The Rice Diet at Duke had the reputation of being a second home to many celebrities and comedians. Elizabeth Taylor, Shelley Winters, Buddy Hackett, Dom DeLuise, and, allegedly, even Elvis, had spent a significant amount of time there. It was the perfect hideout for desperate dieters.
My dad would leave in the beginning of March and would stay
until September. We would join him at Duke for the month of June, when my sister and I were on break from school. The days before my dad left, he must have packed on an extra fifty pounds—in fear that he would never eat again. All the hidden Ding Dongs, Twinkies, and Yodels were unwrapped. Boxes of Cap’n Crunch, Coco Pebbles, and Frosted Mini-Wheats were purchased and emptied. He even made sure to try all thirty-one flavors at Baskin-Robbins.
The Rice Diet was the opposite of the Atkins Diet. It was high in carbohydrates and low in protein—consisting mostly of white rice and small bits of canned fruit, broiled chicken, and fish. Anything with salt or fat was a no-no. Even one speck of vegetable oil or salt would diminish the miraculous effects. There were no adjustments on the diet, no seasoning of your own food, no little cheat day when you achieved a milestone. The plan required a rigid preset menu with no choices. If you wanted results, you would not stray from what was provided, especially in the first couple of months.
The night before my dad left, I remember him finishing several orders of baby back ribs, sucking the bones in delight as he scraped off every last bit of meat, not even thinking to offer a single rib to anyone else. Watching him gnaw on the bones, I remembered Beauty’s words: “Monkey see, monkey don’t. We all have choices. You should make smart choices, and only emulate people that have beauty, grace, and class.” Beauty wanted me to love and appreciate food, not inhale and mindlessly overindulge. My grandmother would tell me to pretend I was the queen of England when I ate—to eat slowly, taste the food, and put my fork down between bites. She loved showing me how to sip tea while daintily holding my pinkie out.