Even thinking about arranging a dinner party throws me into a panic. You'd think it's a life or death matter if the asparagus burned. Or if the sterling silver sugar scuttle was displayed unpolished, the police would barge in and haul me off, charging me with "tarnish" and toss me in the slammer.
Dinner parties? Days, weeks of preparation: polishing furniture, silver, scrubbing the bathroom, washing the windows, displaying new guest towels, matching candles to flowers, shopping for exotic ingredients to prepare time-consuming recipes from gourmet magazines for fussy friends
A dinner party is like opening night of a Broadway show except the hostess is the leading lady, as well as the stage manager, director, and producer and conductor of the orchestra. Doubtless, she'll suffer opening night jitters. Perhaps she won't remember her lines. Misplace the props. Perhaps the guests will be cranky or allergic to the main course or God forbid, veggies. The hostess ponders, will the cordon bleu avec petit pois flop? What will the reviewers say?
I've inherited "Dinner Party Anxiety" from, (who else?) Mother: she awarded me her artistic temperament, holding high standards for performance but no taste for light comedy. Her dinner parties were tragedy: "Othello"," Macbeth" "Death of a Salesman,
Mother directed the performance pacing, wringing her hands, and trembling. As a child, my role was the low stagehand. "Not those goblets. These goblets." I'd set and reset the table while she fretted in her ritual quest for perfection. At dress rehearsal, we'd be both in a frenzy, which for some strange reason, quieted her. "Being nervous before a performance is a good thing," she'd console me.
In my teens we performed Friday Night Specials celebrating the Sabbath with candles and company. Mother was a gifted cook. Her roast chicken was even better than my aunt Dora's, so the dinner fare was tasty. But the the performance was always tense.
My father gambled. The trotters. Poker. He was never a saver. In good years when he was flush we rolled in comfort with heavy gleaming furniture and prime rib. But in lean years, no dinner parties; the dinner fare was sparse. I'd reluctantly answer the phone to the aggravated bill collectors before the lights went out and the oil furnace silenced it's hum.
But in the good years, along with Friday's special company we'd have lavish dinner parties, crystal, fine china, wine.Mother's roast chicken always got rave reviews.
Today mine matches hers. Along with her panic, I've inherited her talent for roast chicken. But please, in my house, let's forget formality. No silver, crystal, lace and china. Let's pot luck, come as you are, and relax. We'll eat in the kitchen.
