screen it

My friend B has many talents, but prime among them I’d have to count vision.  Not the 20/20 kind — she’d be the first to ask you to read her cell phone screen to see whether or not she needs to answer it — but the ability to walk into your house and see something different than what you see. Or to see beyond what you see, is maybe more accurate.

She walked this week into the room off our kitchen that passes as a pantry-cum-catchall and announced that I needed to make it into a usable space.  A sitting area, maybe.  Or a screen porch.

She tossed that out, casual-like.

So.  If you’ve ever seen a shark bite on chum, you have a good visual of my reaction.

Oh, it’s not the southern sweep of annexed outdoor space I truly crave, but I am nothing if not reasonable, if not amenable to compromise, if not willing to accept and wholeheartedly embrace a slightly pallid version of my true technicolor dream.  My first (and former) house had a screen porch, and I’ve missed it sorely.  I do love to sit and relax somewhere and be connected to the smells and sounds and texture of the outside world, but since I am the official Mosquito Magnet, our very pleasant patio just doesn’t work for me much of the year.

But jeez, I said to B, where would I put all this stuff I store here?  She glanced around and announced that I was spoiled.  Spoiled by space.

Hmm.  You think??

In all its cringe-worthy glory.

Somehow all that stuff, as stuff is wont to do, simply accumulated to fill the depth and breadth of available space.  Laws of physics?  Wanton partying and irresponsible sex going on, and the stuff simply begat more stuff?  I’m leaning toward the latter:  the Tupperware had an all-night rave, the coffee grinder got it on with the banana tree and the pizza rack was doing the nasty with the garlic roaster.  And no, I don’t even want to THINK about what the party beer tubs were doing with the coolers.

I do know, however, that they weren’t drinking the booze, because the bottles are covered with dust.  Time was we had a fair number of liquor-drinkin friends, and that was simply the stuff of weekends.  As a result, we own a full stock of all the regulation booze, and some frou-frou too.  Three, six, nine, eighteen bottles I counted.  Virtually all of which have been idle for better than a half-dozen years, though come to think I did make some killer bourbon spiced pecans two Christmases ago.

It’s not a great space for a screen porch — it’s a little narrow, and frankly on the petite side overall — but I think it’ll suffice.  There’s room for us to have breakfast out there.  And access from the front yard will cleverly provides a detour around the catastrophic level of clutter that might, just might, be my living room at a given moment, thereby providing me that place for the casual-dropping-by conversation:   “Won’t you step around to the screen porch?  I’ll meet you with an iced tea/mimosa/margarita.”

Not that I got a bee in my bonnet about it or anything, but I spent the two days following B’s pronouncement on a cleaning/purging/reorganizing bender the likes of which would make Martha herself proud.  And the first contractor came by today to take a look, and another is due shortly.

So come sit on our (screen) porch.  Just give us a couple months.  And if all y’all come at once, just know it’s gonna be pretty cozy.

perfect party

It had all the makings for a major stressaster.  You know, where you’re so freaking stressed out that even if it all ends up going just fine, it’s still a disaster.

We were anticipating 6 or 7 families, with a total of 30-some bodies, to arrive beginning at 4:30 on Sunday for a grill-potluck.

We’d had overnight guests, so some of the mid-morning after their departure was spent picking up toys and tidying.   And since I know good and well that if the kids will be home all day any significant cleaning the morning of a party is destined to be an exercise in futility, not to mention annoyance, because anything accomplished will surely need a major touching up anyway, I didn’t bother with bathrooms or mopping. Closer to doorbell time would be soon enough.

And since I wasn’t making much food, just an appetizer and a dessert and a fruit salad, and I got most of the choppin’ and slicin’ done in the morning,  it seemed perfectly reasonable to head out for a ride a bit after noon.  Couple hours on the road and I’d still have almost two hours to clean, assemble and bake, and shower.  Piece of cake.  Put the MPM in charge of the beer tub and the outdoor seating, toss some silverware out, stack plates, line up wine glasses, major swab on the bathroom, mop, quick vacuum.  Easy pie.

Or, alternately, arrive home a tad late at 3p to a weepy child with an earache and a low tolerance for discomfort, and a dire need for attention and snuggling.

Yuh.

The dessert got in the oven and the appetizer got made, but as the minutes ticked by and I sat with Megs on my lap, I realized the bathroom that had been waiting several days for an attentive scrubbing was going to wait yet another day.   And that I should not be surprised if a guest, finding a foot or perhaps two irrevocably stuck to my kitchen floor, called out for help, only to have their would-be rescuer trip over two empty milk bottles and slam into the kitchen stepladder on the way to faceplanting in an unwashed cat-food dish. And that I myself, in biking togs and full post-sweat helmet-head, had little hope of being any cleaner or lovelier before guests arrived.

And as I waited for the stress to sweep over me, it dawned on me that there wasn’t a single person who would be coming through the front door that I cared about how they saw me or my house.  And I mean that in the very best way possible:  that every one of our guests was someone that I was completely comfortable with.  Good friends, and a rumble and muddle of little ones, and a sprinkling of teens, I could wallow in unqualified acceptance and utter lack of internally arched-eyebrow judgment.

And what a lovely, lovely feeling it was.

Interesting to think how rare that is, at least in my entertaining life.  It made me chew on the fact that although I do think I’m generally willing to have others see the “real” me, I’m a far ways from being immune to feeling that my home reflects on me, and thus how others think of me.  And I want them to think… what?  That I know how to wipe my switch plates and dust baseboards and make my bathroom shine?  That I execute such chores with some frequent periodicity?  The former is true; the latter, certainly less so, at least at this stage of life.  But really, what is it that makes us feel so bad if our house isn’t just so when company arrives?  I’m still mulling on it.

In any event, I think every person who came on Sunday enjoyed the evening as much as I did.  And I have utter faith that not one of them thought less of me for the grubbiness of my bathroom.

And just so’s you know, I cleaned it first thing today, before breakfast, because it really did need it desperately.  And because at that moment, no one needed snuggling more than it needed scrubbin’.

And then I wiped some switchplates too.  Just for the heck of it.  Hey, time to plan another party, quick.

did I mention we had live entertainment?

hmmm, a girl at the grill. is that legal?

fun for children of all ages

thrown together

Here at Casa Fraught, as I’ve mentioned before, on Saturdays the MPM takes charge of dinner. Generally I remove myself entirely from the process, since it’s not just the prep I want a break from, but the whole mental Whatterwehavinferdinner? exercise too.

Yesterday, however, I offered up some input. It was late morning and I was leaned up against the kitchen island, rather enjoying watching him do the Search-For-Inspiration tango between the fridge and the pantry, when I had my own little flash.

“People. Let’s have PEOPLE for dinner.”

The introvert looked at me with a bit of alarm, cannibalism and unanticipated company both presenting immediate and tangible downsides to his mind.

I bribed him by telling him I’d give him the recipe I’d planned to make Sunday. I’d stocked all the ingredients, meaning no trip to the store. And then I whispered the kicker: “Crockpot.”

He caved.

I rang the favorite neighbors; not in. I left a message. He dialed J&S, dear friends we haven’t had over in far too long. Message again.

So much for my Saturday-last-minute enthusiasm. I considered welching on the recipe, but I’m generally a stand-up kinda girl, so I handed it over and in short order he had it cranked up on High.

A few hours passed and the neighbors called wanting to know what they could bring. Then J&S called; they’d made plans to join other friends at a restaurant but I lobbied them to bring the other friends. Those friends called to confirm the time and suddenly we were 8 at the table. I love it when things come together.

The MPM’s crockpot meal, though laudable indeed, was upstaged by the dear friend, who whipped this up between labor contractions and her sweat-flinging workout at the gym:

Easy Lentil-Chickpea Delish

olive oil
onion, chopped
heaping tablespoon curry powder
1.5 quarts broth
large bunch Swiss chard, coarsely chopped
2 carrots, in coins
1 sweet potato, peeled and chunked
1 stalk celery, chopped
2 c red lentils (dry)
2 c cooked garbanzo beans (or 1 can)

In a good-sized pot, saute onions in oil until translucent. Add curry powder and saute 1 min more. Add chard and broth and bring to a boil. Add everything else and simmer until the carrots are tender.

Serve, salting to taste. A dollop of sour cream or yogurt will cut the heat and add creaminess.

Eat and enjoy. Labor pains optional.

(Hurry, Sam! We’re waiting!!)

Protected: my casual weekend

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chaser

I figured it might be a good idea to get the slightly dark taste of my last post out of your mouth by following up with some breezier fare, so here’s a quickie from this evening:

Of the three book clubs I belong to, I have to say my favorite gathering is the one I just came home from. First of all, the member who hosts it (now in its second year, and she’s going to have to work really hard if she wants to escape it turning into an annual affair) has a truly lovely home, so comfortable you can almost manage to forget how incredibly elegant it is, and is an amazing cook and hostess.

Secondly, the husbands are encouraged to come, and that’s like way fun. It’s not too surprising that the spouses of this group of interesting, fun, bright women are well worth spending time with. And after the wine has flowed and plates have been emptied once or twice, we assemble for the evening’s centerpiece: the book gifting, of a book you’ve read or want to, done in a “dirty Santa” format, where stealing is not only permitted but encouraged. Take twenty or so intelligent and amusing people and this is a recipe for some solid entertainment.

Last year I came home with the same book I’d brought, a collection of short stories by Dan Chaon, so it seemed only fitting to bring it back this year for someone else to enjoy. (It ended up in the hands of the host husband.)

The MPM got covetous of another husband’s book, “Twilight in the Desert” — about finance and the oil industry; riveting I’m sure — and after losing both Trillin’s “About Alice” and “Unaccustomed Earth,” by Jhumpa Lahiri I finally brought home Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” (It was described by its gifter — a philosophy professor — as “jaw-dropping,” so I’m really looking forward to cracking it.)

All in all, an evening filled with good food and good company, with the bonus of a good book to look forward to at the end of it.

I love the holidays, yes I do.

the favour of a reply

The French for which “rsvp” is an abbreviation means essentially “respond, please.” It means that the person who has extended the invitation to you wishes for you to let them know if you are planning to attend, or if you are — most regrettably — unable to.

To fail to respond, please, while unthinkable in days gone by, has become fairly commonplace.

Simply because it is commonplace, however, does not render that failure any less frustrating to your host’s attempt to provide sufficiently, yet not overly, for the number of guests who will be present. Nor does it render it anything other than — how can I say this nicely? — rude.

I learned early in my entertaining days that an invitation labled “regrets only” was useless as a tallying device, in that the same folks who won’t trouble themselves to regret are the same ones who will blithely fail to show up. So these days I put “rsvp,” and work on the assumption that everyone who doesn’t respond is going to be a no-show. After a decade or so, I’ve yet to have someone ring the doorbell — with or without tasteful hostess gift in hand — after failing to rsvp, so it’s proven generally accurate.

And while I have to presume that it bothers them not one whit, I can assure you that those folks are then pretty much permanently off my invitation list. Because it’s — what was that word again? — rude. I took the time and effort to invite you, and you can’t even be bothered to let me know you can’t or won’t attend? (I feel the urge to insert: Who ARE these people, and who raised them? And why do they appear otherwise socially adept?)

By the same token, if one has rsvp’d in the affirmative and then is unable to attend — one perhaps fell ill, or found one’s pajamas calling irresistably at the appointed time, or even simply forgot — a brief email or voicemail in the days following is a highly appropriate, and appreciated, gesture.

Maybe I should write a book. What could we call it, this strange notion of guidelines for socially appropriate behavior?

rave-worthy Moroccan Chicken

I’m a bit amazed, because we had 8 smart and plugged-in adults around the dinner table last night and you know what, not one “Palin” was uttered. I’m not sure how it happened, because this is a pretty savvy crowd and I’m sure that if the levee had been breached there would’ve been quite a flood. But it never came to pass.

We covered a fair bit of ground even if we didn’t get to politics. A lot of fun was had by all as near as I could tell, and it was a good crowd for eatin’. And they did if I do say so rave about my guinea-pig recipe, a stew of sorts.

No, no, now, I didn’t COOK guinea pig — I just did what I almost always do, which is to break that cardinal rule about not serving something you’ve never made before to company. (Happily, I don’t think I ever have the kind of company over for whom that rule was made.) Usually it all turns out fairly edible, and everyone’s happy about having served as guinea pigs. As opposed to being served g.p., which maybe they wouldn’t be so happy about.

It’s not the quickest toss-together meal (for that you want Summer Pasta Standby), but it’s ta-aaasty. And it can be prepared a day or so ahead if you wish, which can be a big plus.

Rave-Worthy Moroccan Chicken
Borrowed in large measure from Epicurious, and doctored by yours truly.  I served this with Israeli couscous, but rice would be just fine as well.

Serves 8 at this scale

olive oil
2+ C onion, sliced as thin as you can
4 lg garlic cloves, chopped fine by hand or pressed
1.5 T paprika
2 tsp coarse kosher salt
1.5 tsp turmeric
1.5 tsp coriander
1.5 tsp fennel seeds, ground
1.5 tsp black pepper
scant tsp ground cumin
scant tsp ground ginger
drain a 28 oz can diced tomatoes
1 C chicken broth
3 T lemon juice
16 chicken thighs (I used boneless)
2 – 3 C eggplant in 1-inch cubes, unpeeled
1 T fresh marjoram, chopped
cilantro for garnish, if you like

This will take the biggest, widest, good heavy pot you have to prepare for 8, as written.

Saute onions and garlic over medium heat until fragrant, then cover and cook 10 minutes more. Add paprika through ginger; stir 1 minute. Add tomatoes, broth, and lemon juice; bring to boil. Add the chicken; boil again and then start it in to simmer.

Preheat oven to 400°F. Toss eggplant with 1/4C oil and spread on well-oiled jellyroll pan. Bake until soft and brown, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. Keep simmering that chicken. You can’t overcook it anyway, braising in that goodness there, so just leave it be a while. Greet your company and serve them drinks. And go chat with them a bit, while the chicken does its thing and gets reeeeeal tender, falling off the bone if you have any in there.

And now that everyone is good and hungry, turn the heat up a bit, stir the eggplant and marjoram in, and simmer 10 minutes more. Add the lemon juice, and pass cilantro at the table.

I don’t often call dibs on leftovers, since I have free run of the fridge for lunch while the Most Prudent Man has to pack his. There wasn’t enough left for two; I offered to toss a coin but we ended up splitting what little there was, jealously eyeing portions like kids jockeying for the bigger cookie half.