Dinner Guest #7 - Mr. and Mrs. C.

Like any kid growing up, I had a lot of nicknames.

Kimba

Kimber

Kimchee

Kimmie

KP

Then there’s my maiden name:  Potter.  Those nicknames were usually not as kind.

Little Pot

Pothead

Potty

The least offensive was:  Potsie. 

My childhood friend Barbara named me Potsie sometime in my high school years.  A logical variation on Potter, I think she stole the nickname from Happy Days, one of my favorite sitcoms of the 1970’s.  I can still rattle off all the characters’ names:  Richie, Joanie, Potsie, Ralph Malph, Chachi, and of course, the show’s heartthrob, Fonzie.  Fonzie always referred to Richie’s parents, the Cunninghams, as Mr. and Mrs. C.

This Sunday, we had our own Mr. and Mrs. C. for dinner.

The parents of six children, 26 grandchildren, and 10 great grandchildren, Mr. and Mrs. C. have been married for 58 years and have an endless supply of interesting anecdotes.  I would generally be bored and slightly offended at dinner guests who talk about themselves for too long.  However, Mr. and Mrs. C. are a unique exception.  I could have asked them questions for hours.  Mr. C. spent a year in his 20’s on an island off the coast of Alaska translating Russian communications for the US Army.  Mrs. C attended Northwestern University.  While raising their six children, their family had a tradition of clapping at the end of dinner.  While Mrs. C. interpreted the applause as a compliment to her cooking, Mr. C. explained to us that the clapping was happy relief that nobody died as a result of eating her food.

I kept the dinner very simple:  grilled chicken, sweet potato casserole, sautéed brussel sprouts, and parmesan rolls.  For dessert, I served key lime pie.  My kids love parmesan rolls.  They’re just frozen bread balls rolled in butter and parmesan cheese and set out to rise for 5 hours.  The downside is, when I make parmesan rolls, that’s all my kids want to eat.  Throughout the meal, I kept feeling little fingers tapping on my arm and shoulders asking for another roll.  After the meal, Kate (7) and Rock (3) were wise enough to leave the table and play.  Unfortunately, Rock entertained himself by coloring our leather ottoman with a black, dry erase marker.  Lucky for him, my reaction was unusually mild since (1) Mr. and Mrs. C. were there, and (2) I was too tired to pitch a fit. 

Tonight it occurred to me that I must be getting more comfortable with having dinner guests.  Years ago, I would have concerned about coordinating dishes, placemats, cups, and utensils.  After Mr. and Mrs. C. left, I noticed our unconventional hodge podge of table goods spread out on the table and counters.  The kids ate on home made, relatively unbreakable, acrylic plates decorated with their drawings.  The adults ate on our three remaining Modigliani Tuscan pottery plates (the other five broke).

Viewing my mismatched table, I reminded myself that our Sunday dinner tradition is about friendship, not the décor.  The beautifully decorated tables at Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma, and Pier One are nice to look at, but they are lacking the most important element:  people.