Wendell Steavenson
My mother was born in New York in 1941, into the rarefied climes of haute Wasp (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), the American version of nobs. She grew up between the Upper East Side, the family estate in Oyster Bay, Long Island and the country club. “Daddy would come home in the evening and put his hat in the closet and whistle. My mother would have dressed for dinner.” This would be, for example, lamb chops, mashed potato and spinach, served by Maureen, the maid-waitress in the dining room. Butter was rolled into spherical pats and placed on plates with crackers and a butter knife. Her mother told her, “You are never to go in the kitchen or the cook will quit!”