"Hot Fun in the Summertime..."

   

   

It’s Memorial Day weekend and for many people, it means the start of the summer boating season. It’s been quite a while, but for years, it was the beginning of the best part of the year for me.

   Lake Cumberland, Kentucky is about five hours south of Cincinnati, but it became the center of my summer life when my husband and I first started dating.  He and a friend shared ownership of a speedboat named “GoldiLox” (so named for the bagel-loving Jewish owners). We’d make the trek every other weekend and spend three glorious days waterskiing, swimming and of course, eating!

   Days were spent driving the boat around the massive lake with miles and miles of smooth skiing water. We’d head out early in the day soaking up the sun until late afternoon. After hours of multiple ski runs and swimming in the lake, we’d clean up and head across the lake at dusk to feed the voracious appetites we’d worked up during the day.

   A gin and tonic in one hand and the wind from the speed of the boat blowing our hair and sunburned faces, we’d head across the massive lake to Grider Hill Lodge. Not a Four Seasons resort or fancy marina, Grider’s rustic dock and log cabin lodge might have been overlooked by a less discerning palate, but we knew what was waiting up the hill.

   With all the calories burned that day water-skiing, we were ready for a meal to replenish us . Grieder’s restaurant was known for its’ pan fried chicken and peanut butter pie and they more than lived up to the hype.

  Before the days of eating clean and low-fat, low-carb foods, the meal began with baskets of dollar rolls and real butter. A salad came next; mostly iceberg & tomatoes, dripping with creamy dressing. But the piece de resistance was the fried chicken. Lightly coated and pan fried (no doubt in lard), the magic spices couldn’t be duplicated. Add the mashed potatoes, buttered corn and green beans (something healthy) served family style, and we were in food heaven.

   We’d gorge ourselves to the point of “almost full” because it was almost time for pie. The choice was always difficult. They were known for the peanut butter pie, but often they had banana and chocolate cream as well. As good as those pies were, they were always a disappointment compared to the peanut butter pie. Fluffy and creamy at the same time with an enormous meringue top, the peanut butter pie was always cut into “Grandma”-sized slices.

   Always too full to move right away, we’d sit and talk with the lodge owners and staff for hours until they closed. It became a sort of summer family and we visited often. As time went by, we moved away from the area and sold the boat. But years later, we went back to Lake Cumberland for a family trip with our children, and of course, took them to Grider. Their menu still includes the Cumberland Skillet Fried Chicken and Laura Ann's Famous Mile High Peanut Butter Pie.

   It was delicious, of course, but I think what it stood for was more important . The tastes, the smells, and even the pictures on the wall brought us back to a carefree, easy summer life: even at a time when we were dealing with all of the stresses of careers and parenthood.

   And, from my first bite of fried chicken to the last morsel of pie, work deadlines, carpools, homework, and “mom” stress magically disappeared.

"After School Special..."

 

 Though the world might be a much different place than it was when I was a teenager, teenaged girls haven’t changed that much. 

Walk into any Starbuck’s right after school lets out and you’ll see what I mean. A true “gaggle” of young women spill into the place and hijack a group of tables with their backpacks and laptops. Standing in line to order their lattes, caramel macciatos, and chai teas, they loudly review the events of the day between high- pitched giggles and “OMG” screams.

Their clothes might be different, but that could have been my group of friends after school, taking over the neighborhood Howard Johnson’s; HoJo’s to those in the know.

I know I sound like your Grandpa when I say this, but when I was growing up, if we lived within two miles of the school, we walked. Sometimes our moms would pick us up for a dentist appointment, or we might be lucky enough to know a high-schooler who drove, but otherwise, it was on foot.

It might have been tiring, but that walk home was sometimes the best part of our day; made even better by our after school “snack” sessions at the home of 28 flavors.

Just like the Starbuck’s teens, we’d pile into HoJo’s and nine or ten of us would take over the round booth meant for 5 people. Crowded into the circle, we’d order sodas, French fries, sundaes, fried clams, hot dogs, and bowls of ice cream; our conversation at least five decibels above the other diners’ talk.

The hostess at the restaurant was a Spanish woman named Hazel with a thick accent and a tough demeanor. I know she cringed every time she saw us all walk in, but she greeted us, seated us, and shot a strong glare our way every time we got out of hand.

Nothing terrible; but between laughing and climbing over the seats to look at a note someone had written (long before texting) or reaching across the table to take a bite of someone’s food, we made a lot of noise and a big mess.

Whether it was my best friend Nadine’s burgundy cherry ice cream soda, or my clams and tartar sauce, we always left the table looking like a battleground.

Though Hazel would have loved to kick us out and ban us from the place permanently, she also would see us there with our families on the weekends, so she yelled at us, but no major punishments.

And I remember seeing the “older” girls there and thinking they were so lucky because they were all starting to get their licenses and they could actually drive there. With their teased and perfectly flipped hair and gold initial circle pins, we could only hope we’d be that cool one day.

Each new generation always seems to have their place. From HoJos to McDs, from Panera to Starbucks, one thing you can bet on is an after school invasion of loud voices and big appetities. I mean even the kids on Happy Days had Arnold’s.

"All Night Long..."

  As a child of the baby boom era, my family life was much like those on 60s sitcoms. Mom stayed home and took care of the house and children, and Dad went to work every day. Dinner was kept warm until he came home from the office, so bonding with the kids usually meant asking obligatory questions about our day at the dinner table or watching TV together. We’d say good night, go to bed and then see him off to work in the morning. I never imagined what went on while I was sleeping.

Most nights, a few hours after my brother and I fell asleep, my dad would wake from his evening nap and head out of the house. I would have been thrilled to think that he was a part of some secret mission or doing undercover police work, but he was simply going to eat his “real’ dinner at the local diner, called the Toddle House.

   The Toddle House, a national restaurant chain that specialized in serving breakfast, was open 24/7. Each tiny outlet was built to the same plan. No tables; just a short counter with ten stools. Famous for their grill-fried hash browns and burgers and their incredible chocolate “ice box” pie , the tiny kitchen space and single grill cook could whip up any number of artery-clogging treats.

   My father was a glutton for greasy foods like bacon and sausage, but since my mom kept a kosher home, he never got that at the dinner table. And although my mom tried to stock plenty of Hostess cupcakes, Mallomars, and greasy potato chips in the house for his late-night cravings, he could only get his fix at the Toddle House.  

 

This secret sanctuary was first revealed to me at the tender age of 10. As my homework got more difficult, I stayed up later. During one particularly late study session, I heard the front door open. It was after 11 o’clock and the noise scared me. I crept down the top steps so I could check out the situation and saw my dad putting on his coat and hat.

 “Are you going to work now?” I asked

 He looked a little sheepish, but then he turned to me and smiled.

 “If you can get your coat and shoes on in two minutes, I’ll take you for the best treat you’ve ever had!”

  

  So began my indoctrination into the world of “breakfast anytime”, because once we got there, that was all I wanted. Sitting at the counter, watching the cook  break open eggs with one hand and flip pancakes with the other, I imagined ordering everything on the menu.  

    Besides my dad and me, there were only about two or three other people in the diner. The waitress greeted my father by name and didn’t even ask him what he wanted. She poured him a cup of coffee and had the cook start an order of eggs, bacon and hashed browns.

 “And you, little one?” she asked.

 I looked over at my dad who asked, “Pie or breakfast. It’s your choice!”

 “Breakfast!” I blurted out. “Pancakes!” And the show began.

 Our stools at the counter were so close to the open grill that I could almost touch it. The eggs sat out in an open carton next to a milkshake machine (the green porcelain kind with a silver blending cup). An aluminum pitcher, filled with melted butter, bubbled on the grill, and I watched as the fry cook ladled out enough to start the hash browns. I watched him grab a metal ring (kind of like a spring pan for cheesecake, but only about three inches in diameter) and stuff some shredded potatoes inside. He fried them until they were crisp on one side and flipped them to finish the process. Then, he turned the ring onto the plate and out came a perfect disc of golden spuds!

    And it didn’t stop there. He mixed the pancake batter in the milkshake machine and formed flawless circles with the batter on the grill. At the exact moment they began to bubble, a spatula appeared in his hand and he flipped them. No uneven, burnt pieces with gooey middles like the ones that came from my mother’s Farberware pans. These were golden, fluffy, and incredibly tasty.

As we ate, my dad chatted with the waitress named Betty, explaining that now that I was older, I had to work harder in school, but he knew that I could handle the extra load. She asked me about my brother, my mom’s new car, and even my dog, Nikki. It was obvious that Dad had spent a few evenings there bragging about his brood. He even had me tell Betty about the salt clay map I was working on. I didn’t even think he knew what grade I was in, let alone which assignments I was doing!

 I finished every last bite of my pancakes and, as I scraped the plate for crumbs, I looked over and saw my dad smiling at me.

Thus began a lifetime fixation for diner food, be it bacon and eggs, burgers and fries, or pancakes covered in butter and syrup. Our before bedtime outings turned into pre-Sunday school food fests! They continued well into my teenage and college years. I’d cross paths with my dad going out as I came home, needing to sober up from the campus bars. Our diner excursions gave us the time to share with each other as we devoured our plates together   

   When my children were born, he joyfully introduced them to this world of coffee shop camaraderie, bragging to the waitresses and cooks about their pre-school accomplishments. They knew breakfast with Grandpa had no limits on fat, sugar or quantity and his indulgence raised him to hero status in their eyes!

   He’s been gone nineteen years this November and, to this day, I can’t eat pancakes without thinking of him. Most major religions have all sorts of rituals to make sure we never forget those we have lost, and saying a prayer in remembrance is important. But, I find the same comfort remembering that I got to be part of Dad’s secret little late night feasts at the Toddle House