Dinner Guest #26 - A Challenge

For twenty-six Sundays in a row, I've cooked dinner, invited guests, taken pictures, cleaned up, and blogged.

I'm tired.
It's not easy.
Things don't always go as planned.

Like when you have to substitute roasted sesame seeds because you can't find the tiny bottle of sesame oil you paid $4.50 for just last night at the grocery store.  Or when your husband forgets to put the eggs in the corn pudding and bakes it anyway.

Or when your guests forget to show.

Today's Sunday dinner menu was:

Marinated Flank Steak
Asian Chicken Kabobs
Au Gratin Potatoes
Corn Pudding
Spinach Salad
Fruit
Chips-N-Dip
Chocolate Cream Pie
Blueberry Cream Pie

The kitchen has been cleaned.  The kids are asleep in bed.
Tonight I want to give up on this crazy experiment.
But, I won't.
Tomorrow, things will look differently.
They always do.

See you next Sunday.

Dinner Guest #25 - The S. Family

June 20, 2012

Every Tuesday night, my husband plays basketball at our church with a bunch of guys.  One of the other regular players is Mr. S, a young, soft spoken, Samoan man. 

Ryan suggested that we invite Mr. and Mrs. S. over for dinner on Father’s day.  They have one child, Baby J., and no close family in town.  Ryan joked,

“I want to see what a Samoan eats like!”

Mr. S. isn’t a giant man, but I planned a hearty meal just to be safe.  I made grilled Asian chicken kabobs, corn pudding, blueberry muffins, spinach salad, chips-n-salsa, and served ice cream sundaes for dessert.  Mrs. S. brought a savory dish of au gratin potatoes.

I had seen Mr. and Mrs. S. at church a few times, but never took the opportunity to talk to them.  While Ryan and Mr. S. chatted in the backyard at the grill, Mrs. S. and I prepped the salad and muffins in the kitchen.  Passing the get-to-know-you questions back and forth, I learned that Mrs. S. grew up in Orem, Utah, met Mr. S. in high school, and played basketball.  I casually threw out that my sister Carey used to be a high school basketball coach in Orem many years ago and faintly in the distance,

“It’s a small world after all……..” began to play.

Not only did Mrs. S. know my sister, “Coach Potter,” but the coincidences continued when Mr. S. said my sister was his high school English teacher.  They started looking at me a little closer and said,

“Yeahhhh, you look like her!”

I wish I looked like my five-foot-seven, beautiful, athletic, sister Carey, but I'll take the compliment regardless.  

During dinner my children tried to guess where Mr. S. was born.  Rock blurted,

“ENGLAND!”

Despite his Samoan heritage, Mr. S. was born in Northern California.  He is one of eight children and joked that in his family, there are seven black sheep.  I didn’t want to ask too many personal questions, but Mr. S. always had such interesting answers.  His father never had a formal education.  Mr. S. is the first person in his family to attend college.  When his parents and siblings gather, it is not unusual for them to roast a whole pig, buried in the ground.  Mrs. S. had equally interesting stories.  One of her brothers is 6-foot, 7-inches.  She used to sell real estate and she lost 50 pounds through weight watchers.

Before the S. Family left, we took what has become our traditional group picture.  I couldn’t wait to email the photo to my sister and tell her about my small world experience.

So what does this Samoan eat like?

A gentleman.

Dinner Guest #24 - My Parents' Neighbors

Sunday, June 10, 2012

While traveling, it's always a challenge to maintain my Sunday dinner tradition.  Not wanting to impose a large group of eaters on my parents, I asked my Mother to secure a guest.  She extended a few invitations, but ultimately gave up after several declines.  Slightly disappointed, but still determined to complete a year of Sunday dinners, I shopped and cooked regardless.  I figured my parents could serve as my guests yet again (see Guest #1) without completely shattering the blog experiment.

I love to cook in my mother's kitchen.  It has beautiful custom cabinetry, green and black-flecked granite counter tops, and a gorgeous Viking range.  Best of all, my mother has every kitchen gadget, copper pot, and serving dish you'll ever need.  I made a mental note to no longer give her cooking items as gifts.  She is out of room.

I cooked my way through Sunday morning into Sunday afternoon.  Chili simmered in the crock pot and corn bread baked in the oven.  Excited by the smells, my mother impulsively called her neighbors and asked them to dinner.  Surprisingly, they answered, "Yes."

In my parents' housing development, "neighbor" is a very loose term.  These are not people you casually run into as you set the trash out on Monday mornings.  In their deep green, wooded, mountain community, homes are spaced far apart and neighborly sightings are rare.  I have never met Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor and was suddenly nervous about feeding complete strangers.  I had no idea if they were vegetarians, lactose-intolerant, allergic to nuts, or diabetic.  My mom casually said,

"Don't worry.  She eats really healthy.  She may even bring her own food."

That didn't help.

The meal consisted of red and white chicken chili, cheddar-scallion corn bread, quinoa-almond celery salad, fresh cherries, watermelon, and chocolate cream pie for dessert.  Mrs. Neighbor seemed especially interested in the cornbread, inquiring about its ingredients and cooking method.  I quickly learned that Mrs. Neighbor's signature dish is home made corn bread.  If I had known previously, I would have made a different kind of bread to accompany the chili.  No smart cook invites Colonel Sanders to dinner and makes fried chicken.  Lucky for me, Mrs. Neighbor was very gracious and in polite phrases, declined the cornbread due to her allergy to dairy.

Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor were very kind, socially polished people.  It seems I am usually in the role of asking questions, carrying a conversation, and taking interest in our guests' lives, but the Neighbors caught me by surprise, asking me questions.  I knew the food was okay when Mr. Neighbor took second and third helpings of my dishes.  My Mom even asked me for my chocolate cream pie recipe.

After the meal and conversation were through, Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor drove away with a few playful honks in an electric hunting buggy.  My Mom said sadly,

"We probably won't seem them for another six months."

I suppose that's the price you pay for living in a forest of aspen and pine at 8,000 feet above sea level.  Back home, I know when my neighbors have company over because the cars are parked in front of my house.  I know when their gardener is mowing because I hear the loud drone every Wednesday afternoon.  I know when my neighbors are out of town because newspapers pile up on their driveway.  Yet, I wouldn't change where I live.  I enjoy having neighbors so close.

I don't have the opportunity to visit my parents' home very often.  It is a seven hour drive and I hate road trips.  So this particular Sunday, I'm glad I was there to experience the bi-annual meeting with the Neighbors.

Dinner Guest #23 - The G. Family

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Depending on your current age, weight, your feelings on aging, and memories of childhood, you may like or dislike running into old friends.  However, it seems that one of the benefits of living in the town where you grew up is that you occasionally run into old friends.    You may see your elementary school teacher at the grocery store, your little league baseball coach at McDonalds, or your high school prom date eating with his family at the Olive Garden.

This never happens to me. 

I live 2,400 miles from where I grew up.

However, sometime in the last year, I made a small connection.  Through the somewhat unsettling, friend-finding miracles of Facebook, I learned that my friend, Mrs. G., spent her teen years not far from my hometown in Maryland.  She even attended a church youth group with the Ingersoll family, longtime friends of my parents.  For some strange reason, having that common friend makes me like Mrs. G. even more.  It’s like she has actual proof I existed before I became a wife and mother.

On Sunday, June 3^rd, we had the G. Family to dinner.  I served thyme lemon chicken kabobs on bamboo skewers, Brazilian rice, feijoada, roasted sweet potatoes, pao de queijo, and tortilla chips with three kinds of dip.  Mrs. G. brought watermelon.  I gave myself a cooking-from-scratch break on dessert and bought mini apple blossoms from Trader Joes.  They are pretty, delicious, and only require a 15-minute warming in the oven before serving.  They would have been ready in 15 minutes, if I hadn’t placed them in a cold oven, set the timer, and walked away.  No big deal.

I worried that the three, teenaged G. family children would be bored at our little kid home.  However, I was happily surprised when all six kids were playing hide-n-seek all over the house after dinner.  Ryan and Mr. G. talked at the table while Mrs. G. and I cleaned up the kitchen.  Mrs. G. washed the dishes and I loaded the dishwasher.

I rarely tell my dinner guests that they are part of my 52 Friends for Dinner project.  I don’t want them to feel that the dinner invitation was insincere or part of a stunt.  Mrs. G. is aware of my experimental Sunday dinner tradition and was willing to come regardless.

That’s a friend you keep. 

There’s not much I can do about running into old friends.  It’s not an issue worth moving for.  I’ve made the trek to a few high school reunions and got my fix of old friends for a night.

The reality is, the longer I live, these “new” friends will become my old friends.

Dinner Guest #22 - The T. Family

Sunday, May 27, 2012

I admit. 

I was a little nervous to have this family to dinner.

When you combine our two families, there are seven children under the age of seven, five of which are boys between the ages of three and seven.  I feared there would be more chaos than I could handle. 

On the flip side, I knew it would be fun.  My boys would be in play date Heaven. 

The T. Family are happy, easy going people.  Mr. T. is always quick with a joke.   Mrs. T. is too kind for words.  We are still friends even after my embarrassing display of poor manners last February.  I invited my family over to her house on Superbowl Sunday, two weeks before she had a baby, so I could see Madonna perform at half time.  Not only did Mrs. T. say, “Sure…Come Over, ” she fed us pizza and bowls of white chocolate popcorn.   Mrs. T. is a gem.

This Sunday for dinner, I made green chili and chicken enchiladas, corn pudding, roasted sweet potatoes, and oven-fried chicken for the kids.  Mrs. T. brought blackberries and melon.  As luck would have it, a friend dropped off a beautiful chocolate chip bundt cake the night before which quickly turned into a birthday cake for T. Family boy #3. 

Dinnertime for the kids lasted less than five minutes.  I wondered why I even tried to feed them.  They had more important things to do with Match Box cars in the toy room.

During dinner, we got to hear how Mr. and Mrs. T. met and the saga of their five-year, on again, off again dating relationship.  My favorite story by far occurred on their wedding night.  After a long day of ceremony and partying, the newly Mr. and Mrs. T. drove off to a fancy hotel to stay for the night.  Once in the room, Mrs. T. realized she had no contact lens solution.  Mr. T., the devoted new husband, drove around town frantically looking for an open store.  Upon returning to the hotel with bottle in hand, Mr. T. found his new wife in bed, deep asleep.   Not wanting to wake tired Mrs. T., a slightly disappointed Mr. T. climbed into bed and went to sleep.  That’s love.

After chatting around the table, a few hours later, it was bed time for both our families.  The T. family cleaned our toy room, lured their children into their minivan with iPhone games, and drove away. 

My fears were completely unfounded.  No one wrote on the walls, jumped on the furniture, or broke anything.  Even the candles used on the birthday cake didn’t ignite anything else in the house.  Maybe next dinner, we will venture out to the pool and see how four adults manage seven wet and splashing children under seven.