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. 

Dinner Guest #13 - Mr. P. and Ms. L.

Mr. P. is a computer genius.  He makes Best Buy’s “Geek Squad” look like ridiculous amateurs. 

We met Mr. P. several years ago when he set up, networked, and troubleshooted the computers at Ryan’s work.  A few lunches later, more computer sessions, and we now have Mr. P. over for dinner on a regular basis.  He has also joined our New Year’s Eve tradition and beats everyone at the DVD board game “Scene It.”

Single no longer, Mr. P. now brings Ms. L. along.

They are in love.

Mr. P. is another one of our gluten-free friends.  However, he’s easy to cook for because he loves Brazilian food.  Mr. P. and Ryan share the same favorite restaurants:  Texas de Brazil and Del Frisco’s.  This Sunday, our menu was back to Feijoada (black bean stew), Brazilian rice, and pao de queijo (cheese bread).  For some variety and color, I threw together a few vegetables dishes and made roasted sweet potatoes and corn pudding.   Ryan picked up a case of guarana soda at a local Brazilian market to top off the meal.

I would normally make some kind of fattening, thousand-calorie, decadent dessert, but I’ve temporarily lost my sugar drive.  I watched a documentary called “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” this week and it turned me off to eating unhealthy food.  While I’m sure the movie’s after effects will fade, I stopped eating dessert a few days ago.  I don’t want to eat any processed food, I lost my desire for fast food, and I don’t want any red meat.  My family doesn’t share my new food convictions.

For tonight’s pseudo dessert, I served apple and banana slices with fruit dip.  Jack complained,

“Fruit is NOT dessert!”

The fruit dip contained cream cheese, marshmallow crème, cool whip, and pineapple juice.  Anything with marshmallow crème counts as dessert in my book.  Every last apple slice was eaten, so I will most likely serve it again.

Rock couldn’t seem to keep his sippy cup on the table during the meal, so after multiple drops, we just left it on the floor.  Aside from that minor annoyance, the kids were very good.  They asked their usual questions and we learned that Mr. P. was born in Connecticut and Ms. L. can’t eat chocolate.  We also heard about Mr. P.’s first ride in the back of a police car.  No one else had a cool story like that.

Several hours later as we talked and laughed and yawned around the dinner table, it was time to put the kids to bed.  Mr. P. and Ms. L. said their goodbyes and drove away.

Tonight I learned that Sunday dinners are easy if you:

(1)   make the main dish the day before

(2)   serve fruit for dessert

(3)   You have a kind husband who cleans the kitchen, mops the floor, wipes down the stove top, and watches the kids while you take an afternoon nap!

Dinner Guest #12 - The G Family

They’re not complete strangers, but pretty close.

I’ve never actually had a conversation with anyone in the G family, but I invited them to dinner anyway.  It sounds risky, but really, how bad could it be?

I knew this much:

Each Sunday, Mr. and Mrs. G. take care of my son Rock and an entire pack of three year olds for two long hours at church.  At the end of the two hours, Mr. and Mrs. G. are still smiling, and Rock comes home happily clutching a picture of Jesus he colored.  I know I couldn’t do it.  That many three year olds would drive me nuts.  People who show extraordinary patience and caring toward children are generally my instant heroes.

To learn a little more about the G family before the dinner, I googled their names.  Expecting nothing but dead-end websites, I was surprised to find Mrs. G. has a store on Etsy and she makes the most amazing folding fabric kitchens and doll houses.  She’s crafty in a cool, stylish, creative way.  Embarrassed to tell Mrs. G. about my google spying, I mentioned it anyway because I wanted more details on her shop.

Over dinner, I learned both Mr. and Mrs. G. are from small towns in Idaho, both are pharmacists, and they met each other at a church singles group.  They have two children, one girl and one boy.  Their daughter spent most of the night playing with Kate’s Barbies.  Their son jabbered away saying, “ARRGH!” as he played with Jack’s pirate ships. 

I made my usual dishes:   heavenly chicken over pasta, sweet potato casserole, green beans, rolls, strawberries and grapes.  For the first time, I was tired of eating my own cooking!  I don’t want to see heavenly chicken or sweet potato casserole on my plate for a long time.  Next week, I'm branching out to some unchartered international cuisine.  Mrs. G. brought some delicious cheesecakes from The Cheesecake Factory and all of our children walked around the house with smeared, chocolate mustaches and beards.

I’m glad I took a leap and invited the G family to dinner.  I’ve now had long conversations with Mr. and Mrs. G. and found they are just as I suspected:  kind, intelligent, genuine people who work hard and love their children. 

Both of G. kids cried at the end of the night because they didn’t want to leave.  Aside from “Thanks for dinner, ” I think that’s the best compliment you can get from a guest.

Dinner Guest #11 - Ms. J.

Every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and other church-going holidays, the same sorry group of musically-inclined folks volunteer their talents in front of our church congregation.  It’s never a professional grade performance, but hopefully the music brings a peaceful feeling to the meeting.  Music, even at amateur levels, has the ability to touch people’s hearts in different and meaningful ways that words cannot. 

I play the piano, so I’m often recruited to accompany the choir, soloists, and string quartets on these holidays.  At my church, the choir seats and piano are arranged so that I am always adjacent to the soprano section.  The best soprano at my church by far is Ms. J.  It’s not a dramatic, American Idol, belting voice or an operatic diva sound.  Her voice delivers pure, simple tones with just the right amount of vibrato.  She’s the kind of soprano who’s fun to sing harmony with because she makes you sound better than you do alone.  Ms. J. not only sings, but plays the piano, cello, and organ.  In fact, she is the only organist I know who sings along with the hymns as she accompanies the congregation. 

But wait!  There’s more…

Ms. J. writes stories and screenplays, and is the fastest reader I’ve ever met.  She is politically aware, can articulate her opinions intelligently, and has a great sense of humor.  I love her chocolate chip cookies and her black-eyed pea salsa.  I just can’t say enough good things about Ms. J.  She is number eight of 11 children and I love to ask her what probably seem like ridiculous questions about her childhood like:

What kind of car did your Mom drive you all around in?

What did your Mom make for dinner for all those kids?

How many bathrooms were in your house?

Ms. J. always answers my questions graciously and doesn’t tell me to knock it off with my Barbara Walters-style probing interview, though she probably should.

This Sunday, I followed some important rules of entertaining.  I kept the meal simple.  I prepared several dishes the day before.  I even cleaned the night before so I was much more relaxed during the two or three hours before Ms. J. arrived.  I snuck in 30-minute nap when I’d normally be frantically vacuuming the house and cramming messes into the laundry room.  I served pulled pork sandwiches with cole slaw, roasted potatoes, baked cauliflower with cheese sauce, raw apples and carrots, and chocolate cream pie.

Kate, Jack, and Rock did a great job of eating dinner, engaging Ms. J. in conversation, and running off to play after dessert. 

When Ms. J. arrived, she disclosed that she was a little suspicious she had been innocently invited over to dinner, but would then be ambushed by an Amway presentation or even worse, a blind date. 

I was happy to assure her that we had no agenda.

Just friendship.

Dinner Guest #10 - The H Family

The H Family:

He’s an attorney who actually likes what he does.

She’s a former physical therapist and stay-at-home Mom with plans to return to work someday.

Together, they have three beautiful girls that look something like their Dad and nothing like their Mom.

They are kind people with big hearts. 

This Sunday, I stuck with a familiar menu:  grilled chicken, rice and beans, sweet potato casserole, strawberries, and parmesan rolls.  The part of me that loves to cook kept trying to add more side dishes.

“Maybe I could make that Brazilian cheese bread…I have the ingredients for a chocolate pie…Vegetables are not well-represented…,” I thought.

The practical, tired, on-a-budget side won out and kept things simple.  I didn’t even have to worry about dessert.  The H family brought a yummy, raspberry cobbler which baked in my oven as we ate.

Is it possible to get through a dinner without someone spilling? 

I hadn’t even started to fill my plate when Jack (4) spilled a full cup of lemonade onto his plate, the table, the floor, and onto the little girl sitting next to him.  I quickly cleaned up the spill, gave the wet girl one of Kate’s tee-shirts to wear temporarily, and filled another plate of food for Jack.  For the rest of the dinner, Jack drank from one of Rock’s faded, old sippy cups.

Somebody ought to write a book detailing the fantastically naughty things little boys do when their parents aren’t paying attention.  After all six kids ate dinner and ran off to play, Ryan and I sat with the H family parents, J and P, chatting comfortably at the table.  Then, Jack came running into the kitchen to tell me,

“Mom, Rock is writing on things.”

Jack then ran back upstairs happily declaring to the other kids, “I told on Rock!”

I walked into Kate’s bedroom where the kids were playing school and found Rock (3) hiding in the closet clutching a green, dry-erase board marker.  The tops of his hands were green and unfortunately, Kate’s adorable, pink, Pottery Barn bed spread had some fresh green marks on it.  While I pried the marker from Rock's death grip and quickly crammed the bedding into the washing machine, Rock moved onto other forbidden activities.  This time, Rock told on himself.

“Mom, I hurt Claire.”

I ran upstairs to find Claire (3) lying on the floor of Jack’s bedroom crying.  Rock resumed jumping on the bed as Claire explained to me how Rock pushed her off.  For the rest of the night, Rock was restricted to playing downstairs where he could be watched more closely.

In spite of the spills and shenanigans, a ruined bed spread, and the sticky lemonade patch on the kitchen floor, I’m glad the H family came over for dinner.  It’s fun to spend time with people our age in similar phases of life.  Both Mr. and Mrs. H have a gift for articulating an opposing point of view without being obnoxious or offensive.  It’s a rare combination of strong opinions and tact.

Several mornings a week, right around 8:50 am, I drive our silver minivan to school and pass Mrs. H, driving her navy blue minivan away from the same elementary school our children attend. 

We wave.

Sunday dinner gave us a chance to slow down, get out of the minivans, and catch up.

It’s nice to have friends.