To be honest, it wasn’t a total disaster. I just violated some common sense rules of hosting. Like, stay within your comfort zone. We hosted a couple we only barely knew. They had invited us to dinner at their house in December and it took us three months to return the favor. We had a lovely time then. But because of holidays and illnesses, we just couldn’t synch our schedules until last weekend. The problem with hosting people you only barely know is that if disaster happens – like the food getting burned or the kitchen catching fire – you can’t really laugh it off because these new folks don’t know you well enough to understand that doing something stupid is just your nature. And so, they may end up talking about “the disastrous night at the Journeys” for years to come. Thus, it sometimes is best to plan dinners out until you know your guests are comfortable with any dinner disasters that may arise. 

I began cooking early in the afternoon – browning diced pancetta and ground chuck, veal and pork (it needed to cook 45 minutes in order to form a crust) and then toasting and grinding my own juniper berries for Frank Stitt’s Bolognese, as published in his new book Bottega Favorita. I had made the dish before and it is fabulous. What I didn’t realize is that one of our guests grew up in an Italian household. I discovered this tidbit when he announced that there are only a few Italian restaurants where he will actually go eat because he grew up eating good Italian food. I should have remembered this from December, but I didn’t. His last name is SMITH, for crissake. So I violated another rule of entertaining – don’t prepare foods your guests are experts in eating. If you’re not from the South, don’t make Southern food for a Southerner; if you’re not from Italy, don’t make Italian food for an Italian.

Another rule I effectively violated was – don’t do something stupid. Like, say, dump the food you are about to serve your guests on the floor. I’m not sure if it was that there was almost no lip on those fabulous Z Gallerie dishes I got last year or the olive oil on the pasta, but the minute I picked up a plate in each hand, one teetered toward the hardwoods and its contents went splat on the floor. As I stood in amazement the second plate mysteriously wobbled and followed suit. I was left holding two plates with about three noodles left on each. Hearing my gasp, my husband ran into the kitchen and, like any dear husband, shot these photos.

Based on the wine glasses, you’d suspect I was blitzed. But I honestly wasn’t, and certainly not early in the evening when the dinner dumpage occurred. On a positive note, we served what was left of the pasta and talked until late into the night as their toddler slept in the bedroom and Truman quietly watched Sponge Bob in the other room until he, too, gently drifted off to sleep on the couch. I suppose we’ll see if the Smiths actually talk to us again. Until then, I’m going to stick to ordering pizza for our dinner guests.

(photo of Martha Stewart, Flickr, Art Comments)

JWJourney

Post from: Blisstree

Tips To Avoid Dinner Party Disasters

Total Mushy Dorkball Warning.

As I sat at the table of 14 wonderful people at a dinner party last week I was in awe.

Awe of me. If I can risk boldness, self-love, pride, conceit -whatever you might think of a woman who is starting to expand her own realm of influence and concept of power.

I waited for many years to be invited into a really awesome book club of interesting women.

One day it occurred to me that I might actually wait my whole life and never, ever get that invitation. It was a sad thought. Completely unacceptable.
I was praying for it, when it occurred to me, “someone has to start something like that.”

If I wanted it, it stands to reason other women wanted it too. But, rejection is risky. It’s painful too. Especially if you’re an “other.” I’m the “other,” (in case, you hadn’t noticed).

I realized I wanted it bad enough to take the risk. I started inviting women to come to my book club. I was rejected over and over and over.

At one point I sat alone in a coffee shop for 45 minutes thinking okay, so there is no way in which this doesn’t suck. Then I saw two women get out of the car to meet me. Relief.

In under a year I’ve created a really, really awe-inspiring book club. Something warm and beautiful and fulfilling. Where my friendships were once barren and lacking of appreciation and respect for who I am, I now get to have Rachel Ray quality dinner parties with people who might not think exactly like me, but they do appreciate what I’m about.

At our first invite-the-spouses dinner party I looked around the table and realized that I was so glad about every single person there. Those who rejected my invitation wouldn’t have fit with the group in the right ways.

The women who said yes and showed up brought something completely unique and special to the group.

During the invitation process, I frequently heard a prompting in my ear or head that said, “announce the book club” and I had to take a deep breath and muster all my courage and step out of my comfort zone to do it.

As I find my own power, step out and risk more rejection and failure in attempts to get what I truly want, I’m getting more comfortable being me. As I do that, I am experiencing more joy and love. The joy, love and connection is making me more prone to weeping.

The party was the best party I’ve ever been too. The hostess, Cindy, set a table worthy of Martha Stewart. The women were smart and strong and warm and funny. The men were charming and gracious.

I didn’t know I could do that.

Post from: Blisstree

Book Club Blessing