It’s funny how some people just love to entertain. In fact, I have friends who will use any excuse to throw a party.
“Can you come over on Saturday night?” one of them will ask. “I’m throwing a big bash, complete with a caterer and a live band, to celebrate my husband’s decision to finally shave off his beard!”
I’ve never been the type of person who enjoys entertaining. I guess it’s because I get too stressed out preparing for the event. Even the smallest gathering sends me into a panic.
For example, my mother was the most easy-to-please, kindhearted woman on the planet, yet whenever I invited her over for dinner, I was a total wreck beforehand. I could have served her hot dogs with beans straight out of a can (she always made her own baked beans from scratch, which required hours of intense labor), and she still would have given my meal rave reviews.
But I always considered it my personal goal to be just like her…an amazing cook, baker and housekeeper.
Had I attempted to win the Ironman Decathlon, I probably would have been more successful.
Not only did all of my mother’s meals look and taste as if Wolfgang Puck himself personally had assisted her in the kitchen, her house always was so spotlessly clean, it wouldn’t have bothered me a bit if she had dropped my meal on the floor before serving it to me. At my own house, however, any piece of food that comes within a half-inch of the floor instantly is covered in so much dog fur, it resembles one of the Tribbles from Star Trek.
So whenever I invited Mom over for a meal, I would become obsessed with perfection. I’d start cleaning the house three days beforehand because I knew she could spot a speck of dust the size of a grain of salt from 20 paces. And I particularly paid close attention to everything within viewing range of where she would be seated at the dinner table…then I would dust, vacuum, scrub or polish it.
At least 10 times in the days leading up to Mom's visit, I’d sit in her designated chair and scan what she would be seeing during the meal. If I spotted a dribble of tomato juice on the fridge door, I'd jump up to scrub it. Then I’d notice a dust ball on top of the kitchen cabinet and attack that. Every time I sat in that chair, I’d find something new to clean or rearrange.
I figured the two bedrooms could be left alone because Mom would have no reason to venture into them…unless she developed stomach cramps from my meal and wanted to go lie down.
When my husband came home from work the afternoon of one of the evenings Mom was coming over for dinner, I was feverishly polishing the varnished wooden chairs we’d be sitting on at the table. I actually could see my reflection in the seats when I was done.
“So what do you think?” I asked as I admired my work.
“You shouldn’t be polishing the part you sit on,” he said, frowning. “You’ll make it so slippery, your poor mother will go to sit down, slide right off the seat and land underneath the table!”
My first thought in response to his comment was, “Oh, no! I wonder if the table is clean underneath? I didn’t check there!”
Cleaning isn’t the only thing about entertaining that stresses me out. Cooking also is enough to make me gulp down a few swigs of cooking sherry. It’s because I like to be creative when company comes over. I don’t want to serve them run-of-the-mill stuff like crackers and cheese for appetizers or a baked chicken leg for an entrée.
So I always made the mistake of experimenting with new recipes right before the guests were scheduled to arrive. Believe me, my list of culinary failures could fill a phone book. As a result, I've practically had to blackmail people to get them to return for another meal.
I remember the recipe for holiday rum-balls I tried. My uncle, after he nearly needed a crowbar to pry one of them from his dentures, said I should patent them as slingshot ammunition.
And then there were the meatballs that were so dry, one of my friends joked, “Did this recipe call for one cup of sawdust or two?”
But the worst dish I inflicted upon my guests had to be something called “Dump Stew.” The recipe described it as quick, easy and delicious. All I had to do was scramble some ground beef, put it into a casserole dish and then “dump” a can of kidney beans, a can of corn, a can of stewed tomatoes and a can of sliced potatoes into it, toss in a few pinches of seasoning, then stir it all together and bake it in the oven for 45 minutes. And voila! Instant, yummy casserole.
Unfortunately, I bought the world’s greasiest ground beef. And when I couldn’t find the eight-ounce can of something the recipe called for, I substituted a smaller size instead.
The oil-slicked blob that emerged from the oven was enough to give my guests instant gallbladder attacks.
I couldn’t help but think of the irony in that recipe. I’m pretty sure it was called “dump” stew because that was where mine ended up, resting in peace.
So I’ve come to the conclusion my friends and relatives are much better off if I leave the entertaining to others, even if they do think I’m anti-social.
I guarantee they will thank me for it later.
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