by Ivana Trump
-12-
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
When Ivanka was at Chapin, one of the girls in her class had a Las Vegas birthday party. Not a Las Vegas–themed party, which would have been strange enough. The plan was to fly the birthday girl—I think she was fourteen—and all her friends to Nevada for an overnight in a casino hotel suite, spend a day on the strip, and then fly back the next day.
I thought about calling the hosts and reminding them that Atlantic City had hundreds of luxurious suites, including Trump Castle’s, and was only a few hours away by car. No need to fly a dozen New York kids across the country to see the bright lights. For that matter, you could take them to the Grand Hyatt or the Plaza, order room service, and go to see Cats or Les Miz for a fraction of the cost.
For the life of me, I could not understand the point of this trip. They thought Sin City was an appropriate destination for a bunch of teenage girls? It’s possible there was a concert or event that had special meaning to the birthday girl, but still. The only reason this party stuck with me among all the kids’ friends’ parties over the years was the sheer stupidity of it.
Ivanka wanted to go, of course. The party seemed ridiculous to me, but it sounded like a lot of fun to her. I said, “If you’re caught up on your schoolwork, you can go.” Unfortunately, she had an exam scheduled for the day they were flying back. That made the decision easy. Unless she could reschedule the exam, she couldn’t go on the trip. Her teacher refused. Donald called the school and asked politely if the exam could be postponed by one day. The teacher wouldn’t budge. It might have been the only time Donald was told no.
When I tell this story, people often ask, “Did she cry and beg you to let her go?”
Not one tear. Not one whine. My children never talked back. If I said, “You can’t go,” you couldn’t go. That was it. Now, if Ivanka had come back to me with a very good reason to go to this absurd party, I would have heard her out . . . and still said no. My priority was her education, not trashy entertainment. She knew that already, and there was no point in challenging the decision of the boss.
Over-the-top kid-party extravaganzas were a matter of course in New York and Los Angeles in the eighties and nineties, with parents spending tens of thousands on their children’s fifth or tenth birthdays, hundreds of thousands on Sweet Sixteens and bar and bat mitzvahs. The gifts were insane: BMWs, Benzes, Dolce & Gabbana shopping sprees, a trip to Paradise Island for fifty.
We Trumps weren’t exactly modest and unassuming. During my marriage to Donald and after, I have been known to enjoy the good life, and that includes parties and galas, and openings of clubs and restaurants. I have hosted fabulous celebrations all over the world for myself, friends, and charities, some of them attended by Don, Eric, and Ivanka. My philosophy for throwing parties is to go big, have fun, and do it right. I’m a genius with setting a beautiful table, seating charts, and menus. BUT—I did not throw pull-out-all-the-stops blowouts for my children or shower them with mountains of luxurious gifts. Their parties were always within a sensible and appropriate range. If a five-, ten-, or fifteen-year-old sees that his parents break the bank just because it’s his birthday, he will believe he is God’s gift to humanity. He’ll assume his parents will do anything he wants. It’s the key ingredient in the recipe for raising a spoiled brat. A one-year-old child doesn’t remember a party anyway, so the birthday celebrations for my kids until age six or so were small gatherings in the apartment for pizza, cake, and ice cream with friends and family.
Later on, after we bought the Plaza Hotel in 1987, the catering and banquet services would set up a dozen tables in meeting rooms and decorate them with balloons and confetti, colorful table settings, and centerpieces for kid parties. We always invited the parents, too, and served them hors d’oeuvres or drinks from the open bar. It was the only day every year I put time into talking to them, but, as the host, I could make a quick escape if the conversation was horrible. I preferred to concentrate on the kids and make sure they were getting all the burgers, cupcakes, and soda they wanted anyway.
With twenty kids, all their parents, and our friends and family—we hated to leave anyone out—there might be a hundred people in the room. The cakes, made by the Plaza’s pastry chef, were enormous—often with a few tiers.
Since we used the same setting every year, we mixed things up with specialized entertainment like clowns and magicians. Ivanka’s birthday is October 30, so it was only natural to have a Halloween theme with all the kids—and their parents—in costume. Ivanka veered toward pretty princess costumes, anything with leotards, tights, and ballet slippers. One year, she dressed as a ballerina, Eric was a toy soldier in a red coat with gold buttons, and Don was GI Joe in head-to-toe camo. Looking at this photo now, I see how clearly the costumes reflect their roles in the family. Eric, the youngest, was like a toy for Ivanka and Don. They played with him and molded him. When they were older, Ivanka gave him style tips on how to dress his best. Don was both of their protectors, a soldier who had his little sister’s and brother’s backs. Ivanka was the outgoing performer who wanted attention and bloomed in the spotlight.
Don’s birthday was New Year’s Eve, so his parties were always in Aspen. We invited our in-town friends to our hotel suite for dinner and cake, and to sing “Happy Birthday” to him. Then Donald and I would go to a restaurant or club with our friends, and the kids would stay in the hotel with my parents. They were allowed to watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV and would tell their friends that they got to stay up until midnight, but it was really only ten p.m. in Colorado. Until Don turned ten, he thought the celebrations and fireworks on his birthday were for him! When we came back to the city, we’d close Wollman Rink to the public and invite Don’s class and their parents for a skating party with hot chocolate and cake.
Eric’s birthday, on January 6, came one week after Don’s, so sometimes we celebrated with one big party for both. Once, we sectioned off an area in front of the Plaza for a show with circus dogs. During the boys’ karate phase, we hired a sensei to do a demonstration. He broke piles of wood with his hands and split a brick with his forehead. He showed the kids how to fend off an attacker and, with a swift move, threw his assistant onto his back on the mat. Then he said, “Who’d like to learn how to do that? Any volunteers?”
Not a peep from dozens of boys.
Then Ivanka raised her hand and said, “I’ll do it!”
As for gifts, sorry to disappoint you if you think we bought them diamond-encrusted tennis rackets, mini Land Rovers, or Shetland ponies with satin bows around their necks. The biggest presents we gave were new bikes or skis, or a couple of party dresses for Ivanka. Her birthday was right before the holidays, and the boys’ were right after. If we piled on the gifts, it would have been overkill. They felt the same way, telling me outright it was embarrassing to open excessive gifts in front of their friends.
I would beg my friends not to give them gifts. I can’t stand it when people send me things that I don’t need or want, which is everything! Then you have to reciprocate and lose half a day shopping. It’s a pain in the neck. You both get sucked into a tradition of sending each other gifts. Stop! Please do not send me anything. If you absolutely must, keep it small, like a nice scented candle or an orchid. Huge gift baskets with candies and cookies? I give them right to Dorothy. (She would like to interject to say that you can continue to send those and other small gifts.)
Of course, people ignored my request and the gift mountain was absurdly high. We made a family tradition of going through all the toys, sports equipment, clothes, and games, and sorting them into piles. One pile was for the keepers, things they loved and were genuinely excited to have. Doubles (or triples) of that year’s hot toy, or things they already had or didn’t really want, went into the donation pile. We sent them to local charities like the Salvation Army, the Red Cross, and Lighthouse for the Blind. The tradition of giving stuck with all of my kids. Eric has made me so proud by raising over $10 million for St.
Jude Children’s Research Hospital via his charitable foundation and annual golf club dinner and auction. Don raises money for Operation Smile. Ivanka fund-raises for Habitat for Humanity and the Children’s Aid Society, among others.
The other, less gratifying post-party tradition in our house: writing thank-you notes. Every single person who came to the party got one. If Mrs. Schlemiel gave a Walkman, she would get a note. If Mr. Schlimazel gave a teddy bear, he would get a note. My kids would have to write hundreds of them after each birthday. It was a huge operation, taking over the dining room table with stationery, envelopes, lists of names and addresses, and stamps. Handwritten thanks (as opposed to using computers) gave the notes a meaningful personal touch. I raised my kids to put manners and politeness first. If someone took the time to shop for a gift, the least my kids could do was take the time to write a proper note.
As they got older, we stopped having big parties. They were at school or wanted to celebrate with their friends. I’d take them to a nice lunch in Aspen or invite them for a weekend at Concha Marina. My gifts didn’t change, though. For Ivanka, I still give her beautiful dresses or handbags. The boys always want new skis or fishing rods or, nowadays, electronics.
I’ve noticed a generational shift in how Don and Ivanka handle their own children’s birthday parties. They’re usually at a play space in Manhattan where the kids can run around and go crazy in a ball pit or on a trampoline. They’re very casual, and limited to family and a dozen or so guests. No tiered wedding cakes, just simple sheet cakes or something homemade with candles. My kids are less formal with their children than I was with mine. It’s a generational thing. In the end, it doesn’t matter where you throw the party or how big it is, as long as the child feels special and loved.
-13-
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
How did the Trumps celebrate the holidays? Just like other American families . . . with a few extra bells and whistles.
HALLOWEEN
When we lived at 800 Fifth Avenue (before Eric was born), trick-or-treating was easy. The kids dressed up and took their little plastic pumpkins door-to-door in the building with the nannies and me smiling behind them. After we moved to Trump Tower, going door-to-door wasn’t appropriate. A lot of the apartment owners traveled and weren’t around, or they didn’t like kids knocking on their doors. Instead, we’d take the kids to Fifth Avenue and Park Avenue and buzzed their friends’ apartments, or we’d go to a party hosted by a classmate. If Halloween fell on a weekend, we’d be in Greenwich. The suburbs were better for trick-or-treating—fewer cars and more of a kid-friendly environment—and the children would run from house to house for candy. I got a lot of exercise keeping up. By the mideighties, when Donald and I had become very well-known, I was worried about the kids trick-or-treating with just the nannies, so our security men would follow them, incognito. I don’t think they’re aware to this day that the security guards were watching them.
THANKSGIVING
This was my holiday to host the extended Trump family—twenty-five people—in Greenwich. With seventeen bedrooms, the house was big enough for a long-weekend sleepover. First, we’d decorate. The entrance was a three-story rotunda, with two staircases climbing up on either side. We got a huge tree, twenty feet tall at least, and positioned it between the staircases. I had hundreds of spectacular crystal-ball ornaments from Czechoslovakia. The kids would hang them on the bottom branches, and the houseman would use a ladder to reach the top. The tree was so huge, it’d take two weeks to decorate. I have been known to leave my trees up through January. Don made me laugh when he sent me a photo of his family’s tree this year that was left in the living room for so long, it turned brown. Apparently, holding on to the holiday spirit as long as possible became a strange and funny family tradition.
I got up at five a.m. to cook a traditional American Thanksgiving feast, dressing a twenty-five-pound turkey with liver, raisin, and nut stuffing. Our side dishes were mashed potatoes, grilled vegetables, and my homemade cranberry sauce. For dessert, apple tart with ice cream.
* * *
ERIC
My favorite holiday growing up was Thanksgiving. We would all cook. My mom would make traditional cranberry sauce with whole cranberries. But as kids, my brother, sister, and I always liked the cranberry sauce that plopped out of the can that you could slice. It just tasted better. She worked for hours stewing her sauce, and we’d end up eating the Ocean Spray gelatin wafers.
* * *
Growing up, we had two November holidays: November 1 is All Saints’ Day, a Catholic holiday for acknowledging the saints; November 2 is All Souls’ Day (in Czech, it’s Dušičky, or “Little Souls”), a holiday for the dead, observed by visiting graves, lighting candles, and laying wreaths. If the dates fell midweek, you would celebrate the following weekend. Growing up, on Dušičky, my mother would cook Segedin goulash with sauerkraut and chicken paprika with cabbage. Although my parents didn’t come to Thanksgiving in Greenwich, they lived with us in the US for at least six months of the year throughout the kids’ lives. My mother cooked all her classic Czech dishes for the kids and made sure they ate every single bite.
* * *
ERIC
Babi was always a rock in our lives, a grounding force. And her cooking! She made strawberry dumplings and chicken paprika, which we all loved. She has a very different attitude than parents or grandparents today who are focused on eating healthy. She came out of the Soviet bloc. You weren’t worrying about using four sticks of butter in a recipe. In fact, if you had four sticks of butter, you were lucky. She would make you eat three servings, and even if you were about to pop, she’d throw more on your plate. I actually found her chicken paprika recipe recently and tried to make it the other day. It was unbelievable. Sauté chicken and add tons of sour cream and butter.
She never wasted food. I remember going to nice restaurants and watching her wrap up rolls that were left on the table and put them in her purse. Her “do not waste a crumb” mentality came from things she saw as a young girl in Czechoslovakia—World War II atrocities and the Russian invasions, people going hungry, parents not being able to feed their children. Babi came over to America and she started experiencing a different life than she had lived overseas, but she never lost her roots.
In the Greenwich house, when I was a little kid, I remember getting in Babi’s bed with her and Don and Ivanka; eating hot dogs, strawberry ice cream, and Klondike bars; watching Wheel of Fortune on this old gray Zenith TV; and feeling really happy. To this day, she remains an amazing person who’s devoted to Donnie, Ivanka, me, our mom, and all her great-grandchildren.
* * *
BABI’S FAMOUS CHICKEN PAPRIKA
Serves 8
INGREDIENTS
1 whole fryer chicken (about 2 1/2 pounds)
2 1/2 tablespoons flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon white pepper
2 1/2 tablespoons sweet Hungarian paprika
1 1/2 tablespoons butter
1 1/2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 cup finely chopped yellow onion
2 cups well-seasoned chicken stock
1 cup sour cream
Noodles or rice
INSTRUCTIONS
1. Cut up and disjoint the chicken.
2. Dust the chicken pieces with 1/2 tablespoon of the flour seasoned with the salt, white pepper, and 1/2 tablespoon of the paprika.
3. In a heavy saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the vegetable oil. Sauté the chicken until browned, about 7 minutes, and remove from the pan.
4. In the same pan, sauté the onion with the remaining 2 tablespoons paprika for 3 to 4 minutes. When the onions are translucent, return the chicken to the pan and add the stock. Simmer, covered, until tender, about 1 hour.
5. Slowly stir in the remaining 2 tablespoons flour and the sour cream. Simmer 10 minutes, until thickened and smooth. Do not boil or the sour cream could separate.
6. Serve with noodles or rice
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GOULASH FOR BEGINNERS
Serves 8
INGREDIENTS
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 white onions, chopped
4 pounds beef, cubed
1 tablespoon paprika, plus more to taste
2 cups water
1 Knorr beef bouillon cube
1 tablespoon Wondra flour
Noodles, potatoes, or dumplings
Salt and pepper
INSTRUCTIONS
1. Heat the oil in a heavy saucepan over medium heat and sauté the onions until pink.
2. Add the beef to the onions and stir together. Add 1 tablespoon paprika and stir. Cook the meat until browned, about 5 minutes.
3. Cover with water and simmer for 25 minutes, adding the rest of the water a little at a time to keep the meat covered.
4. Add the bouillon cube and stir until dissolved. Add more paprika to taste. Add the flour and stir. Simmer until the meat is soft, another 30 minutes. Add water as needed.
5. Serve over noodles, potatoes, or dumplings.
6. Add salt and pepper to taste.
IVANKA’S FAVORITE STRAWBERRY DUMPLINGS
Serves 4
INGREDIENTS
For the dough:
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup Wondra flour
1 egg
Salt
Water
For the filling:
1 pint cleaned fresh strawberries
9 ounces farmer cheese, crumbled
6 tablespoons butter, melted
2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
Zest of 1 lemon
Sprig of fresh mint
INSTRUCTIONS
1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil.
2. Combine the flours, egg, salt, and enough water to make a soft dough. Knead until smooth and springy.