When I met my husband, I refused to invite him home for Passover because I was embarrassed my mother might serve all the catered dishes in the wrong order.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I was once invited to attend a private dinner for Senator John F. Kennedy. But it was a Saturday evening, and I passed. Had better things to do.
I met my husband through a mutual friend. He invited me over for dinner and cooked this meal that knocked my socks off - and maybe knocked off a few other pieces of clothing off as well.
My mother missed having dinner with Lyndon Johnson because she couldn't find the right hat to wear. While my father went off to the white house to break bread with the President, my mother, who's not a things and stuff person, stayed at the hotel and tried on 10 different hats and missed dinner.
I never serve a dessert on Passover that I would not serve the rest of the year.
I remember my father, who was 'somebody' in the synagogue, bringing home with him one of the poor men who waited outside to be chosen to share the Passover meal. These patriarchal manners I remember well, although there was about them an air of bourgeois benevolence which was somewhat comic.
My brother never had me to dinner in his life.
My family never went to a restaurant together; we never went to the movies together. Vacation, we never did that.
I had been in a film, playing a young British aristocrat. My wife told me that she was invited to a dinner and she invited me to dinner and the hostess had seen me and said, 'You cannot bring him.' but I think that I've done enough to shatter the image.
We sat together as a family for dinner at night. And my mother had a job. My dad had a job. But there was always a meal on the table at 6:00, you know.
The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.