by Ivana Trump
3. Wrap a piece of the dough large enough to cover a whole strawberry around each berry.
4. Place the wrapped strawberries in the boiling water for 5 to 7 minutes.
5. While the dumplings cook, make the filling: combine the cheese, butter, powdered sugar, and lemon zest in a bowl.
6. Remove the dumplings from the water and place on a warm serving tray.
7. Cover the dumplings with the cheese mixture.
8. Garnish each with a sprig of mint and serve hot.
ERIC LOVES LEČO
Serves 8
INGREDIENTS
1 medium onion, chopped
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 beef Polska kielbasas, sliced into discs
8 to 10 green peppers, diced
8 to 10 red tomatoes, diced
1 Knorr beef bouillon cube
8 eggs, beaten
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons sour cream
INSTRUCTIONS
1. In a heavy saucepan, sauté the onion in the oil for 3 to 4 minutes until translucent.
2. Add the sausage slices, the peppers, and the tomatoes. Crumble in the bouillon cube and cook until soft, about 5 minutes.
3. Add the eggs and stir for about 5 minutes or until the eggs are set.
4. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and top with a dollop of sour cream. Serve immediately.
CHRISTMAS
When I was a girl, Christmas dinners featured traditional Czech delicacies like hard-boiled eggs with caviar, breaded and sautéed carp, German potato salad, and a strudel for dessert. The Trump Christmas tradition was all about Aspen. (On the rare occasions we were stuck in Manhattan for Christmas Eve, Donald and I went to midnight Mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and then to a reception afterward behind the altar with Cardinal John O’Connor.) We flew to Colorado in a private 727, which was always a nail-biter because the Aspen runway was very short and positioned between two mountains. Most pilots preferred to go to Denver. To make a safe landing in Aspen, the weather had to agree with you, and the pilot had to time it perfectly. Even scarier than landing? Taking off. The pilot would put his foot on the brake, rev the engine, and come off the brake suddenly, and the plane would lift straight up. Even with no snow or wind, I’d hold my breath. The kids had no idea what was going on; they trusted our pilots. Donald didn’t like traveling with the whole family on one plane in case something happened and would sometimes put the kids and nannies on a commercial flight. Fred Trump was the same way. I wouldn’t call it superstitious, though; more like a philosophy of hoping for the best and planning for the worst.
Our holiday home away from home was the Little Nell, a hotel right on the mountain owned by Marvin Davis, an industrialist, movie company owner, and real estate magnate. We had the same three suites every year. One had three bedrooms for the kids. Another had two bedrooms for my parents and Dorothy or Bridget. The last was for Donald and me. At night, from my bed, I would watch the lights on the snowcats as they groomed the slopes, leaving trails in the powder like corduroy pants. Each suite had its own living room and terrace overlooking the mountain.
Once we’d organized our luggage in the suites and had a snack, we’d head straight out on snowmobiles into the valley to pick out a Christmas tree. We only wanted the top eight feet, so the boys would climb a fifteen-foot tree and saw off that much. It’d flip down to the snow, which was as high as your waist. Then we’d tie the tree to the backs of the snowmobiles and drag it to the hotel. We’d carry it through the lobby and down a long corridor to our master suite, leaving a trail of sappy needles along the way. The hotel staff would take our boxes of ornaments out of hotel storage and put them in the suite when we arrived. Once the tree was in place in the master suite, we’d decorate it. When we left in January, the staff would come in and take down the ornaments, repack and store them, and clean the needles off the carpet and the multitude of strays scattered all over the hotel. They were not too happy with us about that. One year, we arrived in our suites to find a faux Christmas tree already set up in the usual spot and decorated! Attention, Little Nell staffers: message received.
In Czechoslovakia, we give the gifts on Christmas Eve. But Don, Eric, and Ivanka are Americans, so we followed the custom of opening presents on Christmas morning. After the kids went to bed, we’d put the gifts under the tree as if we were Santa, and at dawn, they would be wide-awake, tearing the wrapping off their presents while my parents, Donald, and I sipped coffee and wished we were back in bed. Each kid would receive only a handful of gifts. They’d make a list and I’d pick out three items, plus one or two surprises. That evening, we’d get dressed up—the boys in suits and ties, Ivanka in a velvet dress—and have eggnog (for the adults) and hot chocolate (for the kids) with some friends in our suite before we headed to the hotel restaurant for dinner. I wore a slinky maxi dress with a silk-screened Santa Claus on the front, perhaps the only dress I repeated often in public.
* * *
ERIC
Every year, we’d drive for half an hour outside Aspen, then throw on cross-country skis and ski to a charming log cabin called the Pine Creek Cookhouse for dinner. We’d stay there for a couple of hours eating a huge, heavy dinner, then we’d all cross-country ski, totally full, a couple miles back to the car. On the way to the restaurant, it was uphill. The way back was all downhill, which is actually really tough on cross-country skis. You’re stuck in two parallel tracks with no way to stop. It was always pitch-black outside, so we wore headlamps to see five feet in front of us. Everyone was wiping out and getting covered in snow. Don was usually in the front of the line, and he’d hide behind a tree and jump out and push everyone over. I’d tackle him, and we’d all wind up in a big pile, freezing, laughing, stuffed from the big meal.
* * *
NEW YEAR’S EVE
I’m not a big fan of New Year’s. Everyone tries so hard to have a good time and winds up driving drunk, doing drugs, and spending hundreds of dollars on special menus because of the date on the calendar. The day before, you could eat the same food and drink the same wine at half the price, without the pressure of “the best night ever” and idiots going crazy up and down the avenues, puking and having sex in public. No, thank you.
We kept our celebration simple. First, we’d have a cake and a song for Don’s birthday in the suite, and then Donald and I would go to dinner or a nightclub until midnight. Donald never drank a drop, and I would have only two glasses of champagne. Even in a gorgeous spot like Aspen, it wasn’t a lot of fun to watch people drink themselves sloppy and stupid. We’d be back in our suite by twelve fifteen a.m.
EASTER
Spring break was always in Palm Beach. My parents would fly in for a few months, which was a cause for celebration for the kids. Depending on the year, some members of the Trump family would join us at Mar-a-Lago, too. Donald’s sisters might bring their families, and we’d have fun in the ocean and lay out by the pool.
The day before Easter, the chef would make dozens of hard-boiled eggs for the kids to color and paint. Then, on Easter Sunday morning, I’d sneak off and hide the eggs around the pool and the patio. The kids would run around like headless chickens to find those eggs, making it a competition (of course). Whoever found the most would win.
One year, I hid the eggs as usual in some very clever places—in the swan sculptures by the pool, under a bush by the lounge chairs. When I finished, I went back inside and said, “Okay, kids! Go!” It was like releasing the hounds. They took their baskets and ran straight to where I’d hid the eggs, as if they already knew exactly where to look. I found out later that as soon as I took the eggs to the pool to hide, the kids ran into the security room, where we had dozens of cameras monitoring every inch of the property. They watched me hiding the eggs the whole time! Those kids were too smart for their own good.
MOTHER’S DAY
Another Greenwich holiday, made special for me because my mother was always with us. The kids would make cards and
little presents—drawings, bouquets of spring flowers picked from the garden, fresh-baked cookies—for Babi and me. The man in my life at the time would give me roses or orchids, which are always welcome. For dinner, we’d go to Manero’s for lobster and steak to end my day on a delicious note.
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HELICOPTER PARENTING, TRUMP-STYLE
I didn’t choose to be a working mother. I had to work. I needed to work. If you are raised to push yourself to achieve bigger and tougher goals, you don’t just stop doing that if you suddenly have enough money to sit on your butt and eat bonbons all day long. Not to say stay-at-home moms have it easy or don’t work hard! My daughter-in-law Vanessa does more in one day than anyone I know. But the work I felt compelled to tackle was outside the home and in the business world. The same drive that made me a champion and propelled me out of Czechoslovakia was still firmly in place after I got married and had children. By working, I was true to myself. I taught my children about ambition and integrity as a living example. My professional goal was perfection, in the big picture and in every tiny detail. My children grew up watching me excel, and now I watch each one of them do exactly the same thing.
I fully acknowledge that my “having it all” was made possible by the help and support of my parents, the invaluable Bridget and Dorothy, and our incredible household staff, including David, my houseman for many years. Hillary Clinton wrote, “It takes a village to raise a child,” which is one of the only things she’s ever said that I wholeheartedly agree with.
* * *
ERIC
Both of my parents worked very hard and couldn’t be there for us 24/7, so they filled those voids with people like Dorothy, Bridget, Vinnie, and Frank—Don’s and my bosses at the construction site—and Tim, who worked for our family in Florida. Dorothy has never said a bad word about anyone in her life. She is pure and proper. I wouldn’t call Vinnie and Frank pure and proper, just amazing, hardworking people. Tim was ex-military, a tough taskmaster. We always had incredible people around us who watched out for us when our parents couldn’t be there themselves. My parents deserve a lot of credit for putting those positive influences in place.
* * *
Occasionally, when rushing to work on a Sunday, or having to interrupt vacations for a conference call, I had moments of doubt and wondered if I should lighten the workload to spend more time with the kids. But then I’d get into the flow at work and feel the laser focus when making decisions and taking care of business, really enjoying what I was doing, and think, I’m great at this. I should be doing this. The kids are fine. Maybe they would have liked me at home more often. But, then again, if I’d had to pour all of my energy and drive into being a stay-at-home mom, they may have wished I’d leave them alone and go get a job! I was the best mom I could be by being true to myself, and that meant having a demanding career.
I didn’t hover over my kids, what people call “helicopter parenting.” My version of helicopter parenting was to bring the kids to work with me in the Trump chopper. Why separate your two lives—career and family—if you can combine them? At least once a week, starting when they were very young, my kids saw firsthand how I operated at the office, and how I inspired and nurtured the dedication and loyalty of my employees. You can’t force someone to respect you, especially when you’re the wife of the owner. You have to earn it in your actions. I learned the business by listening to Donald—to be a tough negotiator, trust my gut, and value and reward loyalty—and the kids learned it by listening to both of us.
• • •
After we opened the Grand Hyatt, right on schedule, in 1980, my next job was to be the boss of hundreds of workers in the design and branding of Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue between Fifty-Sixth and Fifty-Seventh Streets, which became the home base for the Trump Organization and our family’s home in the triplex penthouse overlooking Central Park. I picked out every piece of marble and every golden fixture in the place. The famous fountain in the lobby? My idea. The steel-and-glass façade? I pushed for that. I wanted the building that bore our name to be a modern marvel, to change the skyline of New York, and it did.
Onward! In 1984, I became the president and CEO of the Trump Castle Hotel and Casino, a from-the-ground-up construction of a luxury resort in Atlantic City that was located 130 miles from home. I was the first and only woman president and CEO of a major casino and oversaw a workforce of thousands, from the builders to the plumbers and electricians, housekeepers, pit bosses, croupiers, bartenders, entertainers, and bookers. You can’t be a pussycat running a casino in New Jersey. I was tough but fair, and my employees loved me. The hotel launched in 1985. On any given day, thirty thousand people would be in and out the doors. The five-thousand-space car garage was always full.
Being president of a casino wasn’t a Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five job. The high rollers came on the weekends with wives or mistresses or both, and I had to be there to make sure they got the full treatment. Tickets to Sinatra, spots at high-stakes tables, all the lobster they could eat and Johnnie Walker Black they could drink. While the husbands and “uncles” gambled, their wives and “nieces” were kept occupied at the fashion shows and spa days that I organized for them.
I once asked a high roller, the owner of a toilet seat manufacturing company from Oklahoma, “Why do you do it? Why drop a fortune at the tables?”
He said, “Ivana, you have your house in Saint-Tropez, your yacht, a plane. You spend your money the way you want to. I’m happy at Trump Castle. You send a plane for me and pick me up at the airport in a limo. I have a host”—a host is a kind of nanny for adults who takes care of the high roller’s every need—“I see the top shows and gamble. This is what I enjoy and how I want to spend my money.”
He could afford it. Other players would lose their house, watch, car, cat, and dog in the process. A gambler might win two million in the morning and lose three million that night. In the end, the house always wins. Working at a casino taught me never to throw my money away. As the holder of a casino license, it’s illegal for me to gamble (except in very particular parameters), but I wouldn’t anyway. I enjoy playing blackjack and I happen to be very good at it, but I work too hard for my money to bet with it. None of my kids gamble, either.
On these weekly impromptu “take your kids to work” days at Trump Castle, I’d bring them to my office. While I cleared my desk, they’d drink soda and have snacks on the carpet. Every Friday night, my assistant would bring me a huge basket of checks to sign. There were automatic payroll checks for my four thousand employees, but I signed a thousand checks a week for food and liquor, restaurant and office supplies, you name it. I’d go over every requisition order with my vice president of purchasing and ask, “Why are they asking for another thousand decks of cards?” Every penny had to be justified and approved by me personally before I signed the check. The kids witnessed this process often.
On Saturdays, we’d explore the hotel and casino, go to the pool, have a buffet lunch, and watch City Lights, the ice-skating show. The kids were having a great time, but I was always working. Was the pool area clean? Were there enough towels? Was the buffet fully stocked? Was the ice show as entertaining as it could be? Ivanka called Trump Castle her own magical playground. Don was attracted to the boats and yachts in the marina. When he was thirteen, he was old enough to work there as a dockhand, helping people get to and from their boats, carrying luggage.
Another part of the business of running a hotel and casino was all the events—the concerts and conventions, boxing matches and trade shows. I exposed the kids to what was appropriate for them and shielded them from the unseemly. It was a balancing act of sharing the good (like a Diana Ross concert) and protecting them from the bad.
For example, in 1988, we organized and hosted the Mike Tyson and Michael Spinks prizefight at the Atlantic City Convention Hall next to the Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino. It was big business for us. The high rollers would come, stay in the hotel, and gamble until six a.m. The casino would mak
e four times as much as whatever we paid the fighters. The Spinks/Tyson fight was promoted by Don King, an ostentatious man with supremely high eighties hair. When I met him, I had only one question: “What mousse do you use?” King did a masterful job of hyping the fight. Big celebrities—Madonna, Sean Penn, Sly Stallone, Oprah, Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, and Jesse Jackson, among others—sat in the front row with Donald, the kids, my father, Fred Trump, and me. The fight was short and bloody. No one screamed louder than Ivanka.
The kids never saw the behind-the-scenes ugliness of dealing with Mike Tyson. He came with an entourage of forty, and they ate insane quantities of pasta and steaks, and guzzled booze like there was no tomorrow. Mike and his wife, Robin Givens, stayed in a luxury suite next to mine. One morning, I met Robin in her suite and she had a huge black eye and was covered with bruises.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Michael got crazy last night and he bumped me off all four walls,” she said.
Tyson came out of the bedroom and I said, “What’s wrong with you? You can’t treat her like that.”
He just shrugged and said, “She pissed me off. Maybe I was drunk.”
We never had him in the casino again. I was relieved when Robin outed his abuse soon after and divorced him. He was absolutely crazy.
Frank Sinatra used to sing in my casino four weekends a year and I took the kids to see him many times. But I made sure they didn’t spend time with him because he was a terrible man.
Donald once had a meeting with Prince Rainier in Monaco. Barbara Sinatra heard that we were also staying at the Hôtel de Paris and called to invite us to dinner at the Grill with her and Frank, and Roger Moore, his wife, Luisa, and his daughter. This was during the Reagan era, and Frank was very friendly with Ron and Nancy. Barbara, not so much. At White House dinners, Mrs. Reagan would seat Barbara in Siberia (at a table far away from the action) and park Frank right next to her. At the Grill dinner, the Sinatras, Moores, Donald, and I were discussing the current war in Afghanistan, and Barbara made a critical comment about Reagan. Frank exploded. He jumped out of his chair and started screaming at her. “You’re just a woman! You don’t know anything! How dare you talk about my friend Ron that way?!”