Chapter 21
As we made the brine, trussed the turkey, and prepared the sides, we laughed a lot.
Trisha said that in agreeing to disagree about whether the side dish was called dressing or stuffing, we were focusing on what united us, not what divided us.
We prepared my Grandmom Jacobs’s stuffing, which she always made using stale Italian bread.
Trisha’s grandmother used saltines, so we added some of those, too.
“Let’s set the table Nana-style,” my grandkids say when they’re helping out with meals.
That really touches my heart. Before holiday meals, we forage together for dried hydrangeas or anything else that we can find, and we arrange them into bouquets as decoration.
The kids have always seemed to enjoy doing that with me.
I hope those traditions will stick as they grow older and have their own families.
When I hosted family parties at the White House, I tried to make the gatherings feel the same way, with lots of food and plenty of flowers and candles.
For her party, I bought huge metal stars from a garden center and wrapped them with white lights, and I scattered vases all down the table.
The menu—Biden-style: a twirl of pasta with thin chicken cutlets.
We gathered in the Rose Garden at dusk, and the effect was pretty spectacular.
Ashley had mentioned being a huge fan of Mumford & Sons, so I got in touch with Marcus Mumford.
I said, “If we flew you over, would you sing at this party?” He did, thrilling everyone.
For Finnegan’s and Natalie’s graduations, we celebrated at the White House and Camp David. I loved seeing the girls and their friends laughing and having fun, hopeful about their lives ahead.
Throughout our married life, Joe and I always welcomed family and friends to stay in our home.
Two of Beau’s friends from the University of Pennsylvania lived with us in Wilmington for a summer while they were taking courses.
Another kid whose parents were going through a divorce came and stayed for a couple of months.
Then my sister Bonny and her cat Mittens lived with me for about a year when she was getting divorced.
All three of my children came home again when houses were being renovated or leases were up.
There was plenty of room, and I loved to cook for them.
When Naomi was in law school and clerking for Judge Tom Ambro, she lived in Wilmington with us for a while.
Then one Sunday, she came back from a weekend in the Hamptons, and she said, “By the way, Nana, on Wednesday I’m going to go to Washington to see a friend, and I’ll be back the next morning for work.
” I noticed a certain flush to her cheeks. She looked a little dazed.
Hmm, I thought. She met someone she really likes. I was right—she’d met Peter Neal.
When Naomi and Peter got engaged, there was no question about where we’d want the wedding to take place.
It would be one of the highlights of my life.
On November 19, 2022, with Bryan Rafanelli, we festooned the White House in white flowers and greenery.
When Peter and Naomi stood on the balcony, her veil rippled gently in the wind.
We served a family classic, Hunt’s favorite, chicken potpie. The cake was so tall that Naomi had to stand on a ladder to cut it. Hunter said to Peter in his toast, “I could not have hoped for someone that was more brilliant, handsome, loyal, and generous a person for my daughter than you.”
There wasn’t a dry eye on the South Lawn when Naomi said her vows.
She talked about a letter she’d received from her late uncle Beau for her confirmation: “Naomi, I’ve learned through my life experience that faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things not seen.
Faith has always carried me. I know it will carry you. ”
In his toast, Joe said that the White House “had never quite felt like home—until today.”
It was true. It was a glorious night.
I think the general assumption is that when you live at the White House, the lavish lifestyle is paid for by the American people.
Housing is covered, yes, but there are elaborate protocols ensuring you pay your fair portion.
For Naomi’s wedding, as well as smaller family parties, that was paid for by us, not taxpayers.
If you want to make a birthday cake in the White House kitchen, you have to pay for the flour—as well as the sugar, the salt, the eggs, and all the other ingredients.
If you want it boxed up for transit, you need to pay for the box.
That’s only fair, of course. There are also considerable subsidies for White House residents.
You’re not paying the salary of the White House chef who will offer to whip the cake up for you.
(Thank goodness, because Susie’s cakes are so amazing they would be worth millions!)
When you’re out at a restaurant, there’s usually a military valet who is in charge and trained in food security.
They post in the kitchen to make sure that the president’s food isn’t being poisoned.
They manage the waitstaff, and they pay the bill for you—but if it’s a meal you’ve chosen to go out for, you do have to reimburse for it.
Everything is routinely reconciled so that you are paying for what you consume.
There were also elaborate rules surrounding gifts.
When people visited the White House, they often brought presents.
Sometimes little things—flowers, wine—but sometimes big ones, like the 7.
5-carat synthetic diamond Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi handed me at his state visit—a symbol of his country’s bid to become a leader in lab-grown gems. The diamond was gorgeous.
But it wasn’t given to me, technically. It was given to the First Lady, which meant it belonged to the federal government.
As soon as something was given to me with a possible value of more than $480, the gift watchdog would snatch it out of my hands before I had a chance to so much as try it on.
Their job was to catalog and assess the value of every present.
I was allowed to purchase the gifts that were given to me if I paid fair market price.
In the case of Modi’s diamond, the prime minister said that it had been handmade in his hometown for $2,500.
He even had the bill of sale. I thought, Maybe I’ll buy it.
Then the State Department appraised it at $20,000, so I did not.
I was told I could display it in my office or borrow it to wear.
So I had it put in a ring setting and wore it to official functions.
When we left office, I gave it back. The ring went into a warehouse along with an infinitude of other presidential gifts, many of which are simply destroyed.
I was given a brooch by Ukraine made out of bomb shrapnel, which to me seemed priceless, but the gift enforcers still put one on it: $14,063.
I let myself buy my favorite gift. When Brigitte Macron came to the state dinner we gave for her, she gave me a delicate little bracelet that she knew I would love.
Because she had picked it out for me, it had sentimental value.
I paid the State Department so I could take it with me when we left office.
I still wear it every day, and it reminds me each time I look at it of the intricate ballet of hosting at the White House.