In December 2011, we boarded “The Santa Train” in Boulder
City, Nevada with our friends the W. family.
During the short ride through the desert, Mr. and Mrs. Claus walked through the train cars,
chatted with the passengers, and posed for photographs. Afterward, we went to lunch with the W.
family where we discussed, among many things, my blog idea for 2012: 52
Friends for Dinner.
“Just as long as I get
to play the part of myself in the movie…” smiled Mr. W.
I love his optimism.
About five years ago, I was introduced to Mrs. W. by a
mutual friend. Mr. and Mrs. W. and I
attended the same college (BYU) at the same time, but never crossed paths until
they moved about a 30-minute drive from us.
We get together a few times a year for fun events like minor-league baseball
games, pool parties, the circus, and other attractions around town.
For dinner I served Swiss Chicken, sweet potato casserole,
corn pudding, parmesan rolls, carrots with dip, and a green salad with balsamic
vinaigrette. I could casually state that
the W. family brought dessert, but this was no simple plate of cookies. The W. family walked into our home with an
ice cream machine, a homemade peppermint chocolate cake covered in a
glass-domed cake plate, and a large cooler enclosing a chilled ice cream
bowl. During dinner, the machine hummed
away as the batter churned and thickened into creamy vanilla ice cream.
When dinner guests arrive, I am often asked,
“How can I help?”
Mr. W. always says,
“Put me to work!”
Mr. and Mrs. W. come from large families. You can tell they have been taught to pitch in and
help out. Plus, when they help, it truly
is helpful. I don’t have to stand by and
smile as I cringe watching my pots and pans get put away slightly rinsed, but
still dirty. The dish washing machine
was running with a full load BEFORE
we even ate dessert.
Whenever we get together with the W. family, I always wish
they lived closer. While we’re only about
28 miles from their home, for two busy families with young children and busy
lives, it seems like another state. If
ever some half-crazed movie producer decides to turn my year of dinner guests
into a movie, Mr. W. will be the first one I will call to say,
“You’re goin’ to Hollywood!”
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