Losing a food fight with myself
I’m writing this in July, so there are summer references, but this scenario describes any family get-together at any time of the year. The dilemma is always about trying to feed an extended group of people who are traveling great distances, and who will crash into each other head-on, in my case, at the bungalow, for one long weekend.
Hubby and I are in the eye of the storm, since we live five minutes from the bungalow, so we are the ones who will be on duty when the troops arrive. And naturally people are dribbling in at very odd hours, because of work or the distance they have to drive. There will be a car with a toddler in it, so who knows when they’ll show up. Toddlers have their own schedule. There will be another car with two dogs in it, and we all know how that can go.
Add to the fact that some people are staying at our house, so now I have two fridges I need to fill. And I must point out that no one asked me to fill them! They do not expect anything. But I have turned into my mother at this point, and I really don’t want the few days my sister gets to be here from Ottawa, to be spent at Sobey’s, so I’d like to prepare ahead of time, because that’s what my anxiety brain is telling me to do.
And this anxiety brain is hubby’s mortal enemy.
“Relax! It’s just food! We’ll figure it out.”
“Spoken like a true man.”
“Hey, I make my own meals, so don’t insinuate that I don’t do anything in the food department.”
He’s right about that. He shops, he cooks, he does dishes. And he has endless suggestions about what I should do.
“Just make a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs.”
“And have the bungalow turn into a blast furnace before they get here?”
“Cook it at home.”
“You can’t eat spaghetti in the summer. It’s just wrong. Besides, they said they probably won’t be here for supper, and the kids aren’t coming in until 10 at night.”
“So, there’s Friday night taken care of.”
“But I should make pizza. Everyone loves my pizza and the kids expect it, and it would be good for lunch, too, but I won’t have enough.”
“So, double the recipe.”
Making eight pizzas is not for the faint of heart. Still. Now that it’s in my brain, it has to be done. “Should I make casseroles too?” “Nah, I’ll barbeque.”
“How are you going to barbeque twelve steaks at one time?”
“Hamburgers and hot dogs it is.”
“That’s sort of boring.”
“Lez . . . listen to me. Nobody’s going to care.”
“Or we could barbeque chicken. Or fat sausages. Well, I’m going to have to make potato salad and pasta salad and salad salad . . .”
“Take a breath! You don’t have to do anything. Open a bag of chips and dip.”
“John! How often does my family get together?! I can’t just throw a bag of Cheezies at them and yell, ‘Dinner’s served!’”
“I’d be happy.”
“What do toddlers eat? I should have something for the little guy, but I have no idea what the rules are now.”
“I’m sure his mother will take care of it.”
I grab a pen and paper. “We have to make a list! I’m going to need shaved ham, shaved turkey, shaved chicken, sliced Swiss cheese, marble cheese, old cheese, Havarti, Kaiser rolls, mayo, mustard, tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, cucumber . . .”
“Take a breath!”
“Oh, good gravy! I forgot about dessert!”
We never have dessert, because John is nuts and I’m on Weight Watchers.
“Do you know how hard it’s going to be to make squares or cookies and not eat them! They’re at least 25 points each!”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t?”
“Get some strawberries and Cool Whip.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
“I’ll make the list for the beverages,” hubby says.
I’m grateful. That’s one less thing I have to think about. Then he ruins it.
“So, what does everyone drink?”
Lesley Crewe is a writer living in, and loving, Cape Breton. These are the meandering musings of a bored housewife whose ungrateful kids left her alone with a retired husband. Since all her pets have now died, she’s very cranky. Her 11th book, Are You Kidding Me?! Chronicles of an Ordinary Life, (a collection of her various columns over the past 20 years), is now available in book stores.