Planning a dinner party can be stressful.
There’s pressure to have the house clean, the table set just so, and the food…! Planning the menu, and preparing the food so that it’s everything you want it to be, can be daunting. Dinner preparations take thought, organization, some creativity, and usually a little bit of ballet.
Today there are beautiful and extremely helpful cookbooks available to all, providing guidance for food preparation and menu coordination. I know. I own a few—and occasionally I use them. There are books that help plan an entire meal, by suggesting the coordination of dishes that will go well together. Some books show you foods that can be prepared two, maybe three, or even four days in advance. (I find this particularly helpful, because I’m more of a “ballerina” than a “choreographer.”) And many books give advice on what wines pair nicely with specific dishes. So with all these helpful guides, it’s possible for almost anyone to plan menus for special occasions and achieve successful results.
My mom has always been a wonderful cook. I grew up surrounded by neighbors, friends, and family who constantly raved about her cooking. (One of her secrets? You didn’t hear it from me: eggs, butter, and cream. Use obscene amounts.) I’m familiar with all of her cookbooks, and I don’t think any of them help with planning entire menus. (She’s an excellent choreographer.) I remember huge family dinners, involving three or four different main dishes, which by today’s busy standards, would take far too long to prepare. The average family dinner was large, and meals for special occasions translated into a table laden with fantastic possibilities. I suppose at the time I didn’t think much of it. Good food was always available. I never witnessed a failed recipe or a dish that didn’t “turn out.” Order take-out because dinner was ruined? I didn’t even know that was an option.
When we had guests, they would praise my mom’s abilities, coming back for second and third helpings. “I don’t know how you do it,” they might say, “this German chocolate cake is amazing!” To this, she would always respond with her patient disclaimer, “Well, it’s not as good as it could be…” The reasons she felt she hadn’t achieved perfection on any given item would vary: not enough salt, ran out of cinnamon, baked a little too long, didn’t bake long enough. The reasons were endless, and none of them made sense or mattered to her guests. But she always explained why “it wasn’t as good as it could be.” In spite of these disclaimers, she consistently pulled off the most extravagant meals. I didn’t really help with any of these preparations, so what did I know? She made it look simple and I thought it was.
It wasn’t until I moved out and began cooking for myself that I began to understand the work and preparation involved in meal planning. And with this knowledge came the desire to help out in my mom’s kitchen whenever she was hosting a special family meal. It was here I slowly started to understand that everything my mom did may have appeared effortless, but there were a lot of smoke and mirrors involved in producing this illusion. Smoke and mirrors were also used to distract guests from realizing that during the preparation of a meal my mom was stressed, short-tempered, and well, bitchy. Perhaps, even more than being a choreographer, she was a great magician. And everyone loves a magician—until you see behind the smoke and mirrors. And especially when you see a short-tempered bitch! It really takes the fun right out of the magic act. Another thing it tends to do is take the “yum” right out of the food.
I guess to my mom, the planning was everything. Everything had to be perfect—perfectly timed, perfectly browned, perfectly presented, perfectly placed, perfectly lit—perfect. But in the end, it was never “as good as it could be…”
I have a childhood friend named Candace, with whom I am still in contact. I travel back to my hometown in Montana about every three months to see her and her family, and to catch up on all the local gossip. Her husband, Stu, is a classically trained chef, and she’s no slouch in the kitchen, either. Neither one of them places a lot of importance on choreography, and cooking with them is always a pleasure. During my stays with them, there have been some nights when Candace does all the cooking, and some nights when Stu does it all. There are evenings I’ve made the meal, and others where we all share the kitchen. Meals are prepared happily and eaten happily.
I’ve been involved in a couple of their dinner parties, as well. As I suspected, there was ballet and choreography; but as much as I looked, I could not find the smoke and mirrors. Their emphasis, instead, was placed on the guests. Who was telling a great story? Who needed an introduction? Who needed a re-fill? Stir the sauce. Sip some wine, and one-and-two and one-and-two. Dinner was served, and everyone sat down at the tables, placed randomly in the yard. Their house at that time was not large enough to hold all their friends and family. They didn’t have the “perfect” house or the “perfect” setting. They worked with what they had, and made it perfect.
With their guests seated, Candace and Stu took their places among their friends. There was no last minute fussing in the kitchen, leaving the guests anxiously awaiting their hosts. (Something my mom still does.) The hosts sat proudly together, enjoying the company of their friends and family. And I sat admiring their gracious appreciation, and was thankful not to hear, “It’s not as good as it could be.”
My friend, Candace is battling stage four breast cancer. Weekly, sometimes daily, medical appointments have shattered the choreography of her life. She and Stu have learned that we can plan our lives, our dinner parties, and our daily activities to the best of our abilities, but in the end, greater forces can take charge. And the best we can do is surround ourselves with good friends and family. Good food is a bonus. And maybe occasionally a dish is a little too salty, or doesn’t have quite enough paprika, but they are too busy “dancing” to care.
Candace and Stu know this is as good as it gets.
I still occasionally use the careful guidance of my cookbooks, but thanks to Stu and Candace, “It’s not as good as it could be” is a tradition I am happy to discontinue.
