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 ANTICIPATION
I am standing on an antique navy blue captains chair trying to reach a soupspoon, a bowl, a family-sized jar of Hellmans mayonnaise and a graceful, long-necked glass bottle of Heinz ketchup that all sit on the white Formica kitchencounter. It is dinner time. I am around five years -old and I have two jobs whichmake up my contribution to the family meal: setting the table and making Russiandressing for the salad. I take both of these tasks seriously. I am proud of my abilityto fold the napkins into perfect diamonds, to determine when and whether we needsteak or butter knives and to decide the size of the spoons that I will carefully placebeside the knives. But my Russian dressing is the
 piece de resistance
. I think it wasmy father who initially explained to me the importance of mixing the correct proportions of mayonnaise and ketchup so that the dressing would have theappropriate balance of sweetness and tang  the perfect complement to the iceberglettuce that is the only available green for salads in the mid- 1960s.Though war and political and social turmoil will always be what the decade isremembered for, the early and mid-sixties were an era of optimism, affluence andstyle. My parents, especially my mother, were influenced by the young couple whoredefined the White House and the responsibilities of their generation as the decadebegan. Like the Kennedys, they listened to Broadway soundtracks, especiallyCamelot, which told of the brief reign of King Arthur and his Knights of the RoundTable and became a symbol of the Kennedy Administration.
 
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ack Kennedy rekindled my mothers devotion to public service, which hadbeen ignited during the self-sacrificing years of World War II and fueled during theMcCarthy era. She was active in Democratic politics -- a true Kennedy idealist  andran our county election board. According to family lore, or at least the way I choseto interpret the sequence of events, I was conceived during the blizzard of 1961,when my parents were snowed in and my six-year old brother had the mumps. Mymothers gold-embossed invitation to the Kennedy inaugural -- an inaugural shedidnt get to attend  was framed and hanging prominently in our house. Ninemonths later, in September of 1961, I was born.Standing on tip-toes on the chair, I use the spoon to reach deep into themayonnaise jar and ladle the heaping mass into the bowl. When I am older and canappreciate the concept of advance planning, I will sometimes have the foresight toturn the ketchup bottle on its head so that I will have a ready supply when the timeis right. But waiting for the ketchup is part of the thrill. Later, Anticipation willbecome famous as the theme song for Heinz ketchup, and few people will actuallyrealize that the song was inspired by Carly Simons first date with Cat Stevens.If the bottle of ketchup is new, then after a shake or two, the thick, rich ruby-colored tomato goodness will slowly emerge from its mouth. More often than not however, getting the good stuff requires perseverance and patience and the carefulorchestration of two simultaneous maneuvers: shaking the bottle of ketchup withone hand while smacking its side with the other. There is a message in this bottle...Like many upper middle class young matrons of the time, my motherembraced
J
ackie Kennedys sense of style and reverence for things European.
 
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ackies taste guided my mother, as she set out to renovate and redecorate ourhouse. It was a California-style redwood ranch --unusual in the small New
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erseytown where we lived -- so much so that it had been featured in an article in the localnewspaper entitled, Meet the Krupnicks, as if our house were our identity. Most houses in town were classic two-stories or the utilitarian split- levels that werepopular with nuclear families. We were the only family I knew who lived all on onefloor.My parents took weekly trips to New York to find the precise furnishingsthey wanted. The custom-made kitchen cabinets, the captains chairs and the baseof the round dining table were all finished in matching antique navy blue. Therewere navy blue wine bottle labels on the kitchen wallpaper, which also featuredclusters of burgundy and rich green grapes. There were chandeliers and Tiffanylamps, antique butcher block side tables and a powder blue Louis XVI formal diningroom. The sunken living room was still empty, aside from two large French arearugs with patterns of roses snaking along a pale blue background. Im sure myparents had exquisite plans for that room. But for my brother, my cousins and me, it was the ideal place to play indoor touch football or set up the tracks for our Hot Wheels cars.I spent my days in the backseat of my mothers brown Fleetwood Cadillacaccompanying her on errands. We went to the gas station, the bank, the post office,the architect and to countless suppliers of home renovation products. Years later,when I am a mother, shepherding my kids to playdates and dance classes in mydirty minivan and saving the errands for my alone time, I am struck by something I
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