*Hospitality Lost and Found*

I can’t remember if I trembled when they asked. I’m pretty sure I did. The question came in an e-mail but would’ve been cooler if it had arrived via telegraph.

Coming to your town for five days –(STOP)-

Can we stay with you –(STOP)-

Or at least share one good Italian meal

            I cupped my hand under my mouth to catch the excuses as they flowed, mostly buts. But I think Big Girl (our oldest daughter and their missionary nanny for three months) will be at college by then. But we have a softball tournament that weekend. But we don’t have enough room, folks will have to sleep on the sofá and the floor. But I’m intimidated, because the wife mommy is a food blogger. And I’m freaked. What if she’s also a white-gloved dust inspector? The house hasn’t been cleaned, really spiffed up, in so long.

            And yet, how could I say no? Big Girl had lived with them a quarter of a year, in a compact casa in Honduras. They shared their every meal, their children, and their vision with her. I couldn’t say no. But I wanted to, was ashamed that I considered it.

            I tried to say, “Mi casa es tu casa,” but I couldn’t get my Irish, German, English, French lips around the words, much less the concept. The only way I can achieve a really good Spanish accent is to mimic the Verizon recording: “Para Espanol, marque el dos.”

            Where did they go—my gift of hospitality, my spirit of generosity? I grew up. Little Me (“Wanna figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Lollipop? Here, you go first.”) was cannibalized by Grown-up Me (“Me, my, mine. That’s all I have time for.”).

~~~~~~~

Honk! Honk! Honk!

            Big Girl clambered down the stairs. “They’re here.”

            I heard jubilation in her voice. I hope she sounds like that when she speaks of us—her real family.

            I peeked out the foyer window as she sprinted toward the street. My eyes bugged as all five of them tumbled out of a dusty old van.

            The wife mommy’s hair was like whipped cream with one drop of yellow food coloring, but her eyes weren’t blue. With hair that Swedish looking, I would’ve thought they’d be glacier, no, fjord, blue. If I took a glass prep bowl and filled it with good quality Italian olive oil and whisked in vanilla? That would be the color of her eyes. She was tinier than me, with an elegant slice to her deltoids.

            Now he, the husband daddy, was a Mr. America leprechaun. His dark hair was smooshed up into a singular wave. From inside the house I could feel his just-bonked-a-tuning-fork-on-a-brick energy undulate toward me. I possess that vitality too, but somehow while they were here, I felt subdued. Calm not jangly, hot chocolate instead of espresso.

            All three offspring had blue, surprised eyes and banana-colored hair. Baby boy buried his face in wife mommy’s neck. The two toddler girls catapulted into Big Girl’s embrace.

            “We missed you! Tell us a story!”

            Unnoticed, I pressed my nose against the door’s screen, waited to face-plant into the invisible ice-cube structure I was certain would exist between us. I know, I thought, I’ll fetch my crème brulee torch. But I didn’t need to. When they climbed onto the front porch, I didn’t even get goosebumps.

~~~~~~~

I wonder if they ever figured it out. The bad thing I did. In the weeks prior to their arrival, I’d crafted a plan, a schedule, to keep them busy. Away from our place. Because really, how could ten people in a hundred-year-old house for five days be good? I arranged sights for them to see. Over in the next county, with other families, in their homes. Go, go, go. Vroom, vroom, vroom. Then they’d pass out every night by nine, right?

            And then came the day they didn’t want to go anywhere. They just wanted to be. Here.

            “We like your house best,” they said. My eyebrows lifted beneath my bangs.           

            “Really?” 

            “Really,” the wife mommy said. “It’s like a super cool, artsy bed and breakfast.”

            My shoulders descended. The corners of my mouth lifted.

            “Nap time,” the husband daddy proclaimed. He stood—the boy baby slumped in his arms, a toddler girl on either side. They headed for the stairs.

            And then we were alone, the wife mommy and me. I checked my watch, tied my shoes. What do we do now, I wondered.

            “Wanna cook some stuff?” I said.

            She grinned and followed me into the kitchen.

            Over at the counter, I sliced strawberries into thin, red halos. Wife mommy reached for the bowl and showered the fruit in balsamic vinegar, sprinkled it with raw sugar. We ate. Smiled.

            I peeled and chopped roasted golden beets, vinaigretted them. Rained down toasted pecans and tiny diced feta.

            “Add that to the list,” wife mommy said, “of recipes you have to send me.”

            I handed her the menu from our Italian Feast Night. “Mark all the things you want recipes for.”

            She circled almost every item then turned her attention to the shitake mushrooms from the farmers market. She sautéed them in golden green olive oil with heaps of garlic minced by me. She flicked in a speck of Silafunghi, my favorite Italian hot pepper concoction, stirred, lifted the wooden spoon to her lips.

            “Wait!” I said. I pressed the spoon back into the sauté pan. “Don’t taste it yet.” I held up my pointer finger. “I have to do one thing.”

            I darted outside to my herb garden, used my fingernails to nip off the largest sage leaves I could find, brushed the soil flecks away. Grinned as I remembered my mom’s philosophy—You gotta eat a peck of dirt before you die.

            Back in the kitchen. I floated the silvery leaves in hot oil, flipped them when they became see-through, used my grandmother’s tongs to hold them up to the light.

            “See? Don’t they look like stained glass? Or an old Coke bottle? Here, put some mushrooms on your fork and top them with a crispy sage leaf. Now taste.”

            I held my breath and watched. Her tongue worked. Her eyelids fluttered. She held up both thumbs. I laughed.

            As she prepped another bite to eat, I whispered, so she wouldn’t hear me, turned away, so she couldn’t see my mouth move.

            “I wish you lived here,” I said to the refrigerator door. “Then we could be friends. We'd eat like this over and over, not just one Sunday afternoon and never again.”

~~~~~~~

The next day, Big Girl and I waved as their van drove away. The morning sun glinted off my daughter’s tear tracks. I didn’t cry. I was too busy working on my accent, in my head, trying to get it just right in case they circled the block and stopped in front of our house for one more Big Girl hug or kiss. But they didn’t come back. If they had, I would’ve sprinted down the steps to the Street, pecked on the husband daddy’s window till he rolled it down.

            “Just so you know, mi casa es tu casa.”

(Pilgrim's) Progress Report

Looking back, it’s a blur, a filmy orange streak. Thanksgiving Day 2012 is. I thought I was ready, that this would be the year I’d achieve my goal. I didn’t want much, just to get everything on the table at its appropriate temperature. I was on track too, until they arrived, the invited guests. Then everything went SHABOING, like one of those trickster cans of peanuts you open and out shoots a cloth-covered spring, wild with potential energy.

            The problem wasn’t that the guests were in the house. The problem was that they were in the kitchen. I’d arranged all kinds of awesome appetizers elsewhere to keep people out of the kitchen, away from me.

            My brother was the first invader of my domain. “Whatcha doing?” he said.

            I kept chopping. “Before I forget, I meant to tell you last night on the phone, we can take Mom home afterward,” I told him. “If you all wanna go Black Fridaying.”

            He peeked over my shoulder as I transferred garlic chunks into the green bean pan.

            “I’m over that idea,” he said, “after what happened on the way here.”

            My heart skittered and I stopped stirring, turned to face him. “What happened? Did you all hit a deer?”

            “Close. A big dog.”

            My eyes filled and I placed an oven-mitted hand over my heart. “That’s terrible!”

            He nodded. “Yep. We came around the corner and there it was, in the middle of the road, licking its butt. And then it wasn’t.”

            My son burst through the door, skidded to a stop in his stocking feet. Held out the empty cracker basket.

            “I, I mean we, need more Nut Thins.”

            I glanced at my watch. “The shrimp butter’s been out all of ten minutes and you’ve already polished off a whole box of crackers?”

            He cowered. Took tiny steps backward.

            I glared. “You know what this is, don’t you?” I handed him another box of Nut Thins from the snack cabinet. “It’s gluttony. Pure and simple.”

            He grabbed the box and ran. My brother followed him.

            Moments later my sister-in-law sidled up next to me. “How can I help?”

            I motioned to the pan of rolls. “Put ’em in the toaster oven please. It’s preheated.”

            “You want me to brush ’em with butter? My mom always did.”

            I squinted at my to-do list. “Sure. Whatever.”

            Right after the toaster oven door rattled shut, I felt her breath ruffle my hair.

            “Are you making gravy next? Can I watch? ’CauseI can’t make gravy. Gave up trying years ago.”

            Her confession gave me pause. I gathered in a deep breath. Be in the moment, I told myself, here. Connect. Share.

            I faced her with a grin. “It’s easy,” I said, “if you know the secret. Gravy needs to be shaken, not stirred.”

            She watched intently as I measured equal parts flour and cooking sherry into a jar. I screwed the lid on tight and handed it to her.

            “Shake it like crazy.”
            As she shook, her face glowed. “I remember now!” she said. “My mom used to make gravy like this.”

            “You’ll never have lumps again,” I said as I poured the slurry into the pan juices. I pressed a whisk at her and glanced at the stove clock. Despite all the interruptions, everything was running pretty close to schedule. The dining room table was set. The votives lit. All the side dishes were arranged on the kitchen table. There was only one thing left to do.

            “Men!” I yelled. “Time to carve.”

            My husband and brother bonded while they devastated the turkey, trying and rejecting a variety of knives.

            “I thought you all had an electric knife,” my brother said.

            I surveyed the pile of pale shreds. “Bring yours next year please.”

            When no one was looking, I stuck my pointer finger into the center of the mashed potatoes. They were warm, not hot. I closed my eyes and growled. Dang it! I missed the mark, again.

            Without being told, my sister-in-law removed the rolls from the oven, slid them into the bread basket, and covered them with a clean dishtowel.

            She smiled when she caught me watching her. “I’m really excited about the gravy,” she said.

            Something inside me unfurled. “Me too.”

            “Maybe I can make it next year,” she said.

            All of me clenched, but then I willed all of me to let go. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Pilgrims' Progress

de·sen·si·ti·za·tion

   [dee-sen-si-tuh-zey-shuhn] 

noun

1. The act or process of desensitizing.

2. Physiology, Medicine/Medica. The elimination or reduction of natural 

or acquired reactivity or sensitivity to an external stimulus, as an 

allergen.

3. Psychiatry, a behavior modification technique, used especially in 

treating phobias, in which panic or other undesirable emotional 

response to a given stimulus is reduced or extinguished, especially by repeated exposure to that stimulus.

~~~

            Well, what do you know? It’s six days out from Thanksgiving and I’m not freaking out. Yet. About the ginormous stuffet I must prepare in less than a week. I can tell I’m relaxed this year because it hasn’t even occurred to me to locate my fountain pen in order to calligraphy the menu and after that the multiple it’s-pert-near-Turkey-Day to-do lists. I call that (Pilgrims') progress.

~~~

            For decades, my ma-in-law had the knack of feeding dozens of diners with amazing aplomb. I wonder how long it took her to lose her fear of cooking 30 items for 30 people and exactly how many years did it take her to master the skill of arranging everything on the buffet at the same time at each individual item’s appropriate temperature? I haven’t even begun to grasp that ability and probably won’t until I a) buy a turkey roaster or b) get one of those fancy-schmancy multiple oven stoves. Instead, I vacillate between two mantras:  1) even-if-it’s-slightly-too-cool-it’s-still-yummy and 2) it’s-better-than-eating-out-isn’t-it?

~~~

            Alas, my own mother is eighty years old and she still hasn’t conquered cooking for a boatload of folks. In fact, it still jangles her to prepare open-faced Longhorn Colby sandwiches, Mrs. Grass’s chicken noodle soup, and Crystal Light lemonade for four.

            Even though she does not possess high-level hostess abilities, I have managed to learn a thing or two from my mom with regards to feeding a crowd. Namely, if something can be made ahead of time, by all means, add it to the menu. To Mom, this means prepare as many items as you can two to three weeks in advance and freeze them. To me, this translates to make or bake as many items as possible two to three days out and Ziplock and/or refrigerate them until needed.

~~~

            Holy cow! We’re inside a week now. I guess it’s time. To make the list and check it twice.

Thanksgiving Dinner 2012

Havarti and Roasted Bell Peppers

(Adventure Girl will hog these for sure.)

Tarantini Tapenade on Toasts

(These bites inevitably yield garlic breath but Sandwich Child claims they are exceedingly worth it! Especially if there are no handsome,

available young men present.)

Shrimp Butter on Crackers

(Boy Child would weep if I didn’t make this family favorite.)

Spiced Pecans

(I find these alarmingly addicting. In fact, they may not make it to the buffet line. I might just hide them in the kitchen built-in alongside the

Pretzel-Cheddar Combos and bite-sized Reese Cups.)

Herb Roasted Turkey

(From Bon Appetit’s 1994 November issue. Why change perfection?)

Bon Appetit’s Mushroom Stuffing

(I did change perfection. Amped up the traditional flavor with the addition of celery, roasted chestnuts and scads of sage.)

Thyme-Scented Browned Butter Green Beans

(I love green beans either bright green and crisp or grey- green and cooked to death with ham bits and a whole onion. These are the former.)

Super Buttery and Garlicky Smashed Potatoes

(With regards to smashed potatoes, there is no such thing as too much butter.)

Sherry Shitake Turkey Gravy

(Bon Appetit 1994 strikes again. Note to self: Mince the mushrooms super tiny

so Boy Child can’t find them.)

Sister-in-Law’s Superb Secret Recipe Orange-Scented Sweet Potatoes

(Sometimes she even lets us keep the leftovers!)

Mom W’s Corn Pudding

(I requested this dish last year to dissuade my mother from bringing lime-Jello-with-cottage-cheese-salad. As if it wasn’t scary enough, Mom insists on serving it atop a bed of Iceberg lettuce with a dollop of Miracle Whip. I used to furtively distribute air-sick bags to my kids whenever she brought this item.)

Cranberries Jezebel

(To my amazement, I'm the only one who cares for this delicacy. The secret ingredient is horseradish. Oops!)

Mom T’s Bread

(Every year in my tummy of tummies, I pray Mom T will bring her famous potato rolls, but anymore she just shows up with sliced Italian bread in a waxed bag. Know why? ‘Cause at 84, she’s totally over cooking for the masses.)

Black Bottom Pumpkin Pie

(This is the only new item on the menu. The recipe is from Southern Living so I expect it to be to-drool-for.)

Pecan Crescent Cookies

(Know why these delicately delicious, boomerang-shaped treats crumble on your tongue? Because the recipe calls for two, count ’em two, sticks of butter.)

Cappuccino, Coffee, or Milk

(I suggest the former to ward off the effects of turkey tryptophan.)

~~~

          I have good news. I just took my blood pressure and checked my pulse. Neither is elevated whatsoever. Maybe I have indeed desensitized my Turkey Day Phobia. Thank you, Jesus! Now if only I could do something about my gephyrophobia; you know, bridge phobia.

~~~

(I'm curious and/or nosy. What's on your menu for Thanksgiving 2012?)

(Desensitization definition found at www.dictionary.com)

The Woman in Red--Part III

The woman collected the meat packet from the cool space beneath her house. Lingered in the dank until she shivered. Back inside the house she sat at the table and untied the string, spread open the waxed cloth. She smiled at the small shoulder bone with bits of meat still clinging to it. Lamb or goat, no doubt. It would make a tasty stew. With lentils and barley maybe.

            She walked over to the hearth. Peered up at the shelf of cooking items. She stood on tiptoe and rolled her fingers against the pot’s side to draw it to her. Carried it back to the table. She brought the urn of water to where the pot and meat package were.

            When she lifted the bone she discovered the note. Tinged pink from the meat. She unfolded the parchment. Smoothed it on the table top. It was instructions. For her deliverance. Written in Dan’s hand. By the time she read the last word, her heart was pounding.

*In Search of Excellence*

I stood and faced the ten people gathered around our dining room table. Held up my pointer finger.

            “Will you excuse me a minute please?”

            I bolted upstairs and buried my head in a laundry basket.  And screamed.  When I lifted my head, there was my husband’s pant leg.

            “Something wrong?”

            I glanced up from my crumple.

            “It’s not perfect.”

            He shrugged.  “It doesn’t have to be.  It’s excellent.  That’s enough.”

Last year my Thanksgiving hoohah was a bit of a fiasco.  I decided to be cool and brine my bird.  Nowhere in the directions did Martha Stewart say it would take the turkey three times longer to roast due to its forty-eight hour soak in salt water.

            Thankfully, all the guests were polite about the extremely delayed entrance of the main course.  We actually started out fine.  The wassail was perfect, all simmery and cinnamony in the Crockpot I’d wrapped with fall foliage paper.  It made the house smell like it had one foot in November, the other in December.

            The appetizer buffet was stunning.  I had to smack the kids’ hands with a wooden spoon to keep them from spoiling their appetite with shrimp butter on toasted baguette slices.  My ma-in-law and I vied for the biggest glutton title with the Bon Appetit spiced pecans.  The roasted bell pepper and havarti slices on fancy crackers disappeared in five minutes, thanks to dear husband.

When the oven timer buzzed, I clapped to get everyone’s attention.

            “And now for the main event,” I said.  “Give me a few minutes to get the turkey out of the oven, and we’ll get this feast started for real.”

            My husband hoisted the steaming Tom Turkey out of the oven and onto my Granny’s cream ironstone platter while I got the side dishes squared away.  Nutty green beans go in this bowl.  Garlic mashed potatoes will live in there.  These two trivets will hold my sister-in-law’s best-ever-she-won’t-give-me-the-dang-recipe sweet potatoes.  And I’ll fill our wedding anniversary bowl with my modified Gourmet magazine stuffing recipe. 

            I balanced on tiptoe to peek over my husband’s shoulder as he sliced into the bird’s breast.  I squealed. He jumped.  The carving knife clattered on the stove top. 

            I waved my arms frantically.  “Stop!” I said.  “The juices aren’t running clear!  The turkey package said the juices can’t be pink or cloudy.”

            My husband looked from me to the bird.  I pressed potholders into his hands.

            “Quick!  Put him back in the oven.”

            I increased the heat twenty five degrees and used my Nan’s giant wooden spoon to shove the roasting pan all the way back and left.  I crammed the side dishes onto the racks, hoping to keep them warm too.  I stood, smoothed the front of my cute aqua and lime Anthropologie apron, and headed into the dining room.  With a basket of cheddar pecan biscuits in one hand and a crystal bowl of salted Amish butter in the other.

            “Everyone get a biscuit and butter.  It’ll tide you over ‘til turkey time.”

My husband checked the bird thirty minutes later.  He stood in the dining room doorway and shook his head ever so slightly.  I choked on my biscuit bite.  Wadded my pilgrim and Indian print napkin and threw it at my empty plate. 

            “Here.  Let me take a look.”

            My mother-in-law followed me into the kitchen.  She touched me lightly on my shoulder.

            “Why don’t we start with the side dishes?” she said.  “While the turkey finishes up.  It’ll be fine.”

            I sighed. And sniffed.  “Okay.”

            She removed everything from the oven but the turkey. Arranged the bowls on the kitchen table.  I placed a little calligraphied placard in front of each serving dish.  The guests filed in, loaded their plates, and returned to the dining room. 

            Before we dug in, my oldest brother prayed.  "Lord, we thank you for this bountiful array of food.  Bless it to our bodies, and please, comfort my sister in her time of distress."  

A half hour later my husband inspected the turkey again.  Then once more after twenty minutes. 

            “Think I’ll wait an hour before I look again,” he whispered to me before he sat down.

            I took a swig of white wine.  “You know what?  Just leave it in there ‘til it’s black for all I care.”

            My mother pointed her fork at me.  “Actually, this is good for my hiatal hernia,” she said.  “Small amounts of food throughout the day are much easier to digest than large meals.”

            I tried to smile.  “Thanks, Mom.”

           

When we were done with our stuffing and veggies, I stacked my plate on my husband’s and stood.       

            “Forget about the turkey,” I said.  “I’ll give everybody some to take home.  Who’s ready for dessert?  There’s Praline Pumpkin Pie or Frozen Caramel Pumpkin Torte.  Both with homemade hazelnut whipped cream.”

            I flipped the toggle on the coffee maker and cut five pieces of each dessert.  Dolloped them with whipped cream.

            My husband set a  cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of me.  I started to take a drink, but stopped.  I inhaled.  Wrinkled my nose.

            “What’s in it?  It smells different.”

            He grinned.  “A shot of Bailey’s,” he said.  “I thought you might need it.”

            I felt my nostrils flare and my eyes start to burn.  He patted my back.

            “There, there. Think excellence, not perfection.”

            I turned to face him, my hands on my hips.       

            “This won’t happen next year.”

            He cringed.  “We eating out?

            I snorted.  “Heck no,” I said.  “I’m gonna cook the dang turkey the day before.”