She was the sweetest thing, this mother of five and grandmother of seven. Her offspring had long ago departed to make their own way in life. She and her husband had raised them well and the good memories easily overpowered memories of their kids’ occasional stubborn resistance in their younger growing years. She was proud of her family and happy with life. But this early Saturday afternoon would have her flummoxed beyond the limits of any recent recollection. Eight people arrived at her home expecting a homemade meal. The reluctant hostess found the arrivals entirely unexpected.
“Hello, hi, great to see you again. Thanks for inviting us for supper. We brought a bottle of wine,” said the lead guesthanding over the bottle before blowing past her and entering the house.
“Oh, hi,” she said accepting the bottle and backing away as the others also walked past her saying their hellos. She was wearing slippers and house clothes, not her preferred outfit to receive guests. In her immediate panic of how to entertain the unexpected guests and prepare supper, she was thankful she’d been out earlier that afternoon and had done her makeup. At least that prospective horror of lacking makeup had been averted. But what now?
It started that previous Sunday, six days earlier. She had been talking to friends at the Italian club and asked them to dinner at her home ‘next Saturday.’ The intent was 13 days hence from the proffered invitation. Clarification was not forthcoming and, due to a misunderstanding, here they were seven days early.
The dinner party advanced quickly and they seated themselves in the dining room. Plates were not out, of course, we’re talking seven days early, but glasses, napkins and utensils had already been placed. Yes, some preliminary groundwork had been carried out this far in advance. Meanwhile, a record played the hostess’ favorite music, Italian folk music she’d grown up with from her parents, both born in the old country.
She needed time to think. She’d bought a batch of grapes at the market yesterday. She took them out of the refrigerator, washed them, cut them into smaller individual-sized batches, put them in a bowl and passed them around the table. Continuing to stall for time she then went back to the kitchen for the dining hardware. She brought out plates and told everyone to “Please take a plate and pass these around,” then grabbed the bowl of grapes off the table and went back to the kitchen. She was lost at this point. What next? Clearly Italian food was expected so she put a big pot of water on the stove and turned on the burner. The talking in the other room was dying down and the guests were getting restless.
She opened the bottle of wine and brought it to the dining room, then mingled with the guests, all the while trying to think of how to feed everyone. Do I admit this is the wrong evening? No, I can’t do that, someone’s feelings may get hurt. Instead, the conversation continued with talk of the Italian club events and fun stories of their colleagues in the club. She eventually excused herself and returned to the kitchen where indecision reigned. She grabbed two boxes of pasta from the cupboard, put them on the counter and thought, ‘Do I really cook for all these people? Or do I tell them it’s a mistake and just buy pizzas?’
“What’s going on in there,” called one of the guests from the dining room.
Panic was solidly established. She brought the bowl of grapes back out and quickly retreated to the kitchen.
“We already had the grapes,” came a voice loudly from the dining room. What to do? The water was boiling with two unopened boxes of spaghetti on the kitchen counter and the phone book was open to the Yellow Pages, P for pizza. She stood staring straight ahead at nothing with the phone in hand. What to do next?
[Based on Mom Klem’s recurring nightmare.]
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