Dinner Guest #18 - The D. Family

Like many of our friends, we met the D. family at church.  While we’re a few years older than Mr. and Mrs. D., our children are similar in age.  Subsequently, we find ourselves in parallel phases of life:  many hours spent at the park, the challenges of finding good babysitters, and a general lack of sleep.

This Sunday, we learned how Mr. and Mrs. D. met and fell in love.  They shared interesting stories about their siblings and one You-Tube famous dad.  Mr. D. even revealed secret details of his recent disappearance during a David Copperfield magic show. 

Unfortunately, four months into my experimental Sunday dinner tradition, I’ve become bored with my own cooking.  Although cheap and easy, I couldn’t bring myself to make Heavenly Chicken, barbecue pork sandwiches, or Brazilian fare this week.  I threw my grocery budget out the window and cooked an old, pre-children favorite:  Green Chili and Chicken Enchiladas.

I knew my children would absolutely NOT eat this dish.  It contained far too many flavors and textures foreign to kids—ingredients like onions, garlic, green peppers, tomatoes, cilantro, green chilies, and cumin. 

However, not wanting a complete mealtime riot, I tailored the rest of the dishes to please the children:  watermelon, fresh raspberries and blueberries, roasted sweet potatoes, and tortilla chips with hot, cheesy, salsa dip.  The D. family brought over a guaranteed winner:  coconut cake, chocolate cake, and ice cream.  Knowing that Jack (5) would pester me every two minutes for dessert, I cut him off at the pass and said,

“If you ask me for dessert, you won’t get it.”

Jack changed his tactics slightly and approached me every 10 minutes to say,

“Mom, I want something that starts with a D!”

We agreed to set a timer so he would stop asking completely.

Rock (3) was surprisingly exhausted.  Just as we sat down for dinner, he laid on the couch with droopy, sleepy eyes, and asked if he could go to bed.  All parents of young children know there is only one answer to this rare question:  an enthusiastic YES!!!!!!   

After tucking him in bed, I walked away from his bedroom hearing the red button from Staples call out,

“That was easy.”

After dinner, Kate and the D. family girls played a superhero/princess, dress up chase game.  Little toddler D. kept himself entertained by playing with my kitchen aid mixer tucked away in a cupboard.  The evening quickly came to a close as we neared our children’s bedtimes.

Although it has been several months, we’ve actually had the D. family over for dinner before.

Sometimes I wonder if in a dark, seldom-used corner of the public library there is an ancient, dusty book on manners that states,

After inviting a guest to dinner, you may not invite them over again until they have reciprocated a similar invitation to their home, thus, maintaining equal terms of friendship.

If such a law exists, I’m officially ignoring it.  I really like the D. family and I didn’t want to wait for a reciprocal invitation.  I’m not keeping score.  In the real world of Sunday dinners, I’ve discovered this simple truth:

There are people who host dinners and people who attend dinners. 

I’m totally enjoying being a host.

Dinner Guest #17 - The V. Family

We met six years ago on a Sunday morning in the Summerlin hospital emergency room.

While sitting in a white, sterile, partitioned area surrounded by see-thru curtains, we overheard nurses assisting a young girl with a high fever and an ear infection.  Our baby Kate was being treated for flu-induced dehydration.  Several hours later, the lucky little girl two beds over was released to go home.  Kate, unfortunately, was admitted, kept overnight, and plugged full of fluids until she plumped back into a chubby, happy baby. 

Mr. V. introduced himself to Ryan at the hospital.  I remember this tall, dark-haired stranger handing Ryan a piece of paper with his phone number and in his loud, New Yorker voice saying,

“Whatever you need, please do not hesitate to call us.  Seriously.  Whatever.”

Fast forward seven years and the V. family are some of the best friends we have ever had.  We’ve spent many Fourth of Julys together in our backyard swimming and barbecuing, Christmas Eve dinners at The Cheesecake Factory, and several New Year’s Eves watching the New York City ball drop and playing “Scene It.”  They are the kind of friends you can call in an emergency.  The rare kind you know will answer the phone at 2:00 am and respond,

“Whatever you need….”

For dinner I served Heavenly chicken over Brazilian rice, sweet potato casserole, a giant fruit platter of strawberries, raspberries, grapes, and blueberries, sautéed green beans, and parmesan rolls.  Joanne brought her amazing chocolate chip bundt cake.  This cake ought to be the last meal served to inmates on death row.  It’s that good.

The kids quickly ate and ran off to play an annoying game I call “Keep the Boys Out of Kate’s Room.”  The game involves screaming, doors slamming, and ultimately running to me with complaints and requests for mediation.  I stay out of it. 

Now for the bad news:  the V. family is moving to California.

I feel like a toddler suddenly left with a pimply, teenage babysitter on a Saturday night, throwing my arms around my mother’s leg pleading,

“DON’T GO!”

Mr. V. has been commuting between Las Vegas and Los Angeles for five months for his work.  Mrs. V. has been substitute teaching, raising their twin girls, and juggling all the other demands of a home, live-in mother-in-law, soccer season, and supervising the elementary school year book.  Mr. and Mrs. V. are not big complainers and keep their challenges private, however, I imagine they’ve both experienced some serious stress over the last few months.  Moving makes sense.

The V. family will be sorely missed.  We don’t travel to California often, but come June, we will have a new reason for a road trip west.  Especially when we get a craving for chocolate chip bundt cake.

Dinner Guest #16 - The H. Family

Over the past several years, some of the most friendly, kind, upbeat, positive people I’ve met in Las Vegas have been transplanted here from Canada, and more specifically, Toronto.  So friendly, in fact that I’ve come up with a new marketing campaign for Canada’s tourism industry:

The nicest people come from Canada.  

The H. family is a perfect example of my theory.  I met Mrs. H. on the elementary school playground one day when our boys recognized each other and began playing.  By coincidence, my son Jack (5) attends the same preschool as their middle son, and my daughter Kate (7) attends the same elementary school as their oldest son.  Therefore, each weekday, we lead parallel lives as we drop off and pick up at the same locations, Mrs. H., in her silver Nissan Armada, and me, in my silver Honda Odyssey.  I knew I would like Mrs. H. when I learned that she used to be a librarian and loves Jane Austen.  Plus, Mrs. H. has a quality I greatly admire:  she doesn’t seem to have one negative bone in her body.

Up to this point in my “52 Friends for Dinner” experiment, with one exception, I have only invited over family members, or friends that I’ve met at church.  So, inviting the H. family to Sunday dinner seemed a little riskier.  I wondered:

Would it be offensive to say a prayer before eating?

Would our husbands get along?

Would they feel uncomfortable in my empty, undecorated house?

As usual, my worries were completely unfounded.  While Kate prayed over the food, no one yelled out,

“STOPPPPP!!!  WE’RE ATHEISTS!”

The husbands sat on the couch for over an hour after dinner talking animatedly about who-knows-what without pausing for long, painful silences or checking their watches.  And as for the undecorated house, I’m finding that my dinner guests simply don’t care.   I think my lack of furniture and accessories may actually be a less intimidating, common ground for some of them.  I ought to start a club:  KSLHD - Kindred Spirits Lacking Home Décor.

I served a mix of my usual dishes:  pulled pork sandwiches with coleslaw, roasted yams, funeral potatoes, and chocolate pie.  Mrs. H. brought a beautiful fruit tray overloaded with strawberries and blueberries.  The kids played loudly and happily for the most part.  They created some kind of game which involved nerf guns and locking themselves in the bathroom, so that seemed the most fitting room for a snapshot.

Several hours later, our family stood on the driveway and waved as the H. family took their tired children home.

Some people like to place a welcome mat at their front door with cute sayings like:

Welcome Friends

Wipe Your Paws

Hi, I’m Mat.

I’ll be looking out for one that says,

Canadians Always Welcome!

Dinner Guest #15 - Ms. K. and Little K.

My Easter started off a little rough. 

The kids ran into our bedroom at 6:30 am singing in birthday style,

“Happy Easter to You!”

While cute, I think I would have appreciated the serenade better around 8:00 am.  Regardless, we immediately dove into the Easter baskets and egg hunt.  It wasn’t long before Rock (3) was eating chocolate covered peeps for breakfast, Jack (5) was biting the head off a chocolate bunny, and Kate (7) was crying that she didn’t get as much candy and money as her brothers. 

Not feeling very sympathetic, I ignored her and hurriedly got everyone showered and dressed for church.  While brushing Kate’s hair into a bun, I reluctantly listened to her complain how the Easter Bunny did not give her what she wanted. 

“Why didn’t the Easter Bunny give me one chapter book?”

At church, I found a little peace from the talks and music, but during the drive home, Kate started up again, bemoaning her Easter basket and its disappointments.  I so wanted to yell,

“THERE IS NO EASTER BUNNY!  I AM THE EASTER BUNNY AND YOU ARE HURTING MY FEELINGS YOU UNGRATEFUL BRAT!”

But, I kept it all inside and simply asked Kate to stop complaining.  I told her to keep her thoughts to herself--that she was making me sad.  Lucky for her, and me, she stopped.

My mood spent the rest of the afternoon under a poor-me grey cloud, not really wanting dinner guests, but not willing to cancel either on our kind friends:  Ms. K. and her daughter, little K.

I met Ms. K. at church and have the opportunity to visit her monthly as part of the “Visiting Teaching” program.  Some of the ladies I’m assigned to visit won’t answer my calls, my texts, or even their front door, so I appreciate Ms. K.’s willingness to let me come over occasionally and talk her ear off.  I admire so many things about her.  She’s a dedicated, hard-working mom raising a beautiful daughter all by herself.  She takes really good care of her hair, nails, makeup, and dresses with style.  I schlep around town too often in exercise clothes and a baseball cap, but someday, I hope to be polished like Ms. K.

Sticking with American Easter tradition, I served ham--a big, eight-pound, spiral-cut, $20 ham from Costco that I unfortunately warmed too long in the oven and dried out into ham jerky.  Regardless, we all ate a fair share of the beast and my kids asked for seconds and thirds.  I also served au gratin potatoes, parmesan rolls, and grapes.  Ms. K. brought a delicious spinach salad. 

For dessert, we ended Ryan’s birthday week celebration with a coconut cake soaked tres leches-style in a mixture of sweetened condensed milk and coconut milk.  The cake was a slight disappointment, but Ryan got his annual birthday song, the kids played with waxy, lit candles, and for the next six months, I will feel less of a cougar as my husband and I will only be two years apart in age.

Sunday dinner with Ms. K. and little K. turned my bad mood right around.  I always find it ironic that in down moments, when I just want to be left alone, it’s the company of friends that brings me out of the funk.  After Ms. K and little K. left, I actually liked Kate again. 

The Easter Bunny façade is safe for another year.

And next time, he’ll put a chapter book in Kate’s basket.

Dinner Guest #14 - The Kunz Family

On Sunday, April 1^st, we were not at home to host our Sunday dinner tradition.  However, that minor detail was not going to stop me. 

Instead, I invited my niece, April, her husband, Paul, and their cute family over to dinner at my parents’ home in Park City, Utah.  Not wanting to burden my mother with the meal preparation, I planned the menu, purchased the food, and brought it with me.  My mother had a rather large pork roast she needed to use up so “Pot Roast in Beer” quickly became the main dish.  I’m not a beer drinker and generally don’t know what to buy.

I am completely clueless in the beer aisle at the grocery store. 

I don’t know what’s bitter, sweet, full-bodied, dark, or a good match for pork roast.  This I do know:  a big can of Foster’s Premium Ale costs less than two dollars and therefore, it’s a winner.

After combining the beer with cream of mushroom soup and pouring the mixture over the roast, I placed the lid on the crock pot and let the cooker work its magic.  I then walked over to the sink to pour the remaining beer down the drain.  Never tempted to drink the stuff, I actually have my own, alternative beer ritual:  I put my nose to the can and inhale deeply.  The smell of beer reminds me of my teen age years in high school:  driving to a party where the parents aren’t home, listening to Guns N Roses “Sweet Child of Mine,” and me, always the designated driver for my under-age-drinking friends who often threw up out the windows of my 1989 red Jeep Pioneer.

To accompany the pot roast, I prepared several side dishes:  au gratin potatoes, sweet potato casserole, spinach salad, parmesan rolls, and strawberries with fruit dip.  All six children ate rolls, strawberries, and a few bites of pork roast.  As expected, all six children stared at the remaining side dishes and refused to eat them.  I didn’t bother with dessert as my father brought out a beautiful carrot cake purchased from his favorite deli, Kneaders Bakery.

I love a Wendy's quarter-pounder with cheese, small fries, and a chocolate frosty.  I can devour a Taco Bell double-decker taco in less than a minute.  Winchell's donuts give me a stomach ache, but the pain hasn't stopped me yet.  However, a slow-cooked, Sunday dinner surrounded by friends and family truly puts fast food in perspective.

I generally don’t require compliments after cooking a meal, although my mother gave me a good one when the meal was over:

“It’s nice to have someone cook for me.”

I think most people feel that way.