individual than myself. He was the kind of person that if you gave him a choice between going to a concert or staying home and watching the Celtics on TV, he’d just as soon choose the game. But once you got him out, you knew how much potential he really had. That’s why we were a perfect couple. I had the motivation that acted as a catalyst for him. He used to say being married to me made him want to accomplish more for himself than he did before. He started listening to things like the Pachelbel Canon. Buying socks that weren’t white. Taking these accounting courses and restaurant management seminars. He had a tape player installed in his Firebird so he could listen to motivational tapes. This was a guy that used to live from one party to the next, and now his whole orientation became getting ahead in the business, buying a home, life insurance, taking up golf even. Life’s funny. I married a rock drummer and ended up with a younger version of my dad.
CAROL STONE
S UZANNE CALLED ME UP one morning. Things had quieted down by this time. She was working hard down at the station, Larry was managing the restaurant on weekends and taking an accounting course at night on top of that. They were busy with the puppy of course, always the puppy. And they’d bought this cute living room set, sectionals. White, naturally. Try talking a pair of newlyweds out of a white sofa, that haven’t started a family yet. They just can’t picture what lies ahead.
“I got this great idea last night while I was lying in bed,” she said. “I’m going to give a dinner party. For the two sets of parents. You and dad, and Larry’s folks.”
Now, my daughter was never exactly Betty Crocker. I’ll never forget her making quiche this one time, back when she was in high school. She just stuck a hunk of cheese on top of the pre-baked pie crust and poured a little cream and egg mixture on top. Said she figured it would melt and blend in, once she put it in the oven.
But the other thing about Suzanne is, once she sets her mind to doing something, she does it. And not halfway either. So you knew it wasn’t going to be any take-out pizza dinner she’d be serving us, or even spaghetti or hamburgers. You knew you were in for a gourmet experience.
“I don’t know, Susie,” I told her. “Joe and Angela seem like nice people, but they don’t have that much in common with your father and I.” I mean, Joe Maretto wasn’t exactly the kind of person you could sit down with and say, “Did you read that article in yesterday’s Wall Street Journal ?” I doubt the man has held a golf club in his whole life, unless maybe he keeps one behind the bar at that restaurant of his, to use on unruly drunks. The other thing I didn’t want to mention to Suzanne was, these people are Italians. They know their food—as you have only to look at Larry’s mother to realize. I didn’t want to see Suzanne getting in over her head. Didn’t want to leave her open to criticism, you know, when this really wasn’t her forte.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “I already bought a recipe book. It’s by this woman named Martha Stewart who’s a real expert at entertaining. There’s plenty of pictures.”
So it was all set. The four of us were going to Larry and Suzanne’s Columbus Day. This was two, maybe two and a half weeks’ notice, but you know Suzanne. Always the perfectionist. I doubt a day went by she wasn’t on the phone to check on some detail or other. Could she borrow my crystal wineglasses? How about Grandmother Miller’s lace tablecloth? What did I think of pear-filled crepes and barquettes with leek chiffonade for appetizers? I won’t even get started in on telling you all we went through over the main dish: should it be Italian, knowing the Marettos, plus the fact of it being Columbus Day? Or did she want to steer clear of Italian food? In the end she went with a pesto-goat cheese-sun-dried tomato lasagna recipe of Martha Stewart’s, with
CAROL STONE
S UZANNE CALLED ME UP one morning. Things had quieted down by this time. She was working hard down at the station, Larry was managing the restaurant on weekends and taking an accounting course at night on top of that. They were busy with the puppy of course, always the puppy. And they’d bought this cute living room set, sectionals. White, naturally. Try talking a pair of newlyweds out of a white sofa, that haven’t started a family yet. They just can’t picture what lies ahead.
“I got this great idea last night while I was lying in bed,” she said. “I’m going to give a dinner party. For the two sets of parents. You and dad, and Larry’s folks.”
Now, my daughter was never exactly Betty Crocker. I’ll never forget her making quiche this one time, back when she was in high school. She just stuck a hunk of cheese on top of the pre-baked pie crust and poured a little cream and egg mixture on top. Said she figured it would melt and blend in, once she put it in the oven.
But the other thing about Suzanne is, once she sets her mind to doing something, she does it. And not halfway either. So you knew it wasn’t going to be any take-out pizza dinner she’d be serving us, or even spaghetti or hamburgers. You knew you were in for a gourmet experience.
“I don’t know, Susie,” I told her. “Joe and Angela seem like nice people, but they don’t have that much in common with your father and I.” I mean, Joe Maretto wasn’t exactly the kind of person you could sit down with and say, “Did you read that article in yesterday’s Wall Street Journal ?” I doubt the man has held a golf club in his whole life, unless maybe he keeps one behind the bar at that restaurant of his, to use on unruly drunks. The other thing I didn’t want to mention to Suzanne was, these people are Italians. They know their food—as you have only to look at Larry’s mother to realize. I didn’t want to see Suzanne getting in over her head. Didn’t want to leave her open to criticism, you know, when this really wasn’t her forte.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “I already bought a recipe book. It’s by this woman named Martha Stewart who’s a real expert at entertaining. There’s plenty of pictures.”
So it was all set. The four of us were going to Larry and Suzanne’s Columbus Day. This was two, maybe two and a half weeks’ notice, but you know Suzanne. Always the perfectionist. I doubt a day went by she wasn’t on the phone to check on some detail or other. Could she borrow my crystal wineglasses? How about Grandmother Miller’s lace tablecloth? What did I think of pear-filled crepes and barquettes with leek chiffonade for appetizers? I won’t even get started in on telling you all we went through over the main dish: should it be Italian, knowing the Marettos, plus the fact of it being Columbus Day? Or did she want to steer clear of Italian food? In the end she went with a pesto-goat cheese-sun-dried tomato lasagna recipe of Martha Stewart’s, with
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