My bride, "Shirley" (not her real name, as they say in the Dear Abby column), loves -- and lives -- to entertain. By the way, she is the center of this piece. And "Shirley" said she'd kill me if I ever made a centerpiece out of her. So, for my own protection, I have cleverly changed her name in this article so she won't know she's being ridiculed. ... I mean talked about.
OK, back to the story. If the Queen were visiting somewhere on this continent, "Shirley" would want to invite her over for crumpets.
Notice I said "want to invite."
You see, in reality, Shirley's afraid to invite anybody over for fear her menus won't be up to par. With my able assistance, "Shirley" has become a wonderful cook. But, she's the only living person who doesn't think she measures up.
My significant other suffers from a severe culinary inferiority complex, the way I figure it. And it's mostly the fault of our neighbors, the Grunwalds.
For a little background, when you look up the meaning of the word "gourmet" in the dictionary, you find a picture of the Grunwalds.
Mr. Grunwald will charter a plane to Latvia to procure only the most delightful caviar. Mrs. Grunwald regularly traverses the steppes of Asia Minor to harvest the freshest rosemary. In other words, you don't see them in the Ho Ho aisle at 7-11.
Every time we've been invited to their house, we have been treated to an epicurean delight. The food is so tantalizing we hardly notice all the lights set up by the cameramen from Gourmet magazine.
Naturally, this kind of treatment has made "Sharlene" very uneasy. (Note: I think "Shirley" was getting wise to me, so I decided to change her name to "Sharlene.") After each invitation to the Grunwalds, "Sharlene" announces to me that we should reciprocate and invite them to dinner. It never happens because she wonders what in the world she could fix that would please their discriminating palates.
In order to calm her rising state of panic, I suggested after our last visit that she prepare a menu she is familiar with. Nothing fancy, just something she couldn't royally screw up and embarrass us forever.
Finally, "Sharlene" had had enough! For the first time ever, she actually took some of my advice. She made the startling decision to invite the Grunwalds. Even more startling, she decided to cook something she had never fixed before. At that point, even my usual confidence began to waver. What if it didn't measure up to the Grunwalds' expectations, I wondered?
Nevertheless, "Sharlene," was undaunted. Showing a rare adventurous side, she made the call and extended the dinner invitation for that very evening. The Grunwalds accepted. It was now too late to turn back.
I knew the house cleaning and food preparation frenzy was about to commence. Using my keen male intellect, I decided the best place for me was in the secluded upstairs bedroom, where I could join Vice President Cheney and watch the Big Game in peace and obscurity. I figured if I was out of sight, I would surely be out of mind.
It worked pretty well, too. I only had to make six trips to the grocery store, spend an hour or two shoveling all the household clutter into various closets, vacuum two or three times, and wallpaper the dining room so that it matched her new napkins.
All the while, "Sharlene" moaned that her Poached Guinea would be an abysmal failure. Being a calm, rational male, I assured her everything would be fine. All we needed to do, I said, was to keep the drinks flowing and nobody would know the difference.
Finally, the moment arrived. The guests of honor entered amid a flourish of trumpets and cascading rose petals. After I gallantly poured our way through a delightful social hour, we escorted them to the dining room.
"Sharlene" and I then retreated to the kitchen, frantically made final preparations and soon re-entered with the main course in all of its picturesque glory.
Following "Sharlene's" half-hour apology that the meat was cooked too long -- or was it not cooked long enough? -- we began. ("Sharlene" is Lutheran, so feeling guilty and apologetic about anything and everything is a natural reaction, like breathing.) As I assured her, everything was delicious and dinner went off without a hitch.
Following good-byes, our guests took their trumpets and rose petals and happily went home. And I'm sure no one ever suspected the main course had ended up on the floor during the last frantic moments of preparation. I simply snagged it with a sharp object, transferred it to the serving platter, and nobody was the wiser.
So, my message to you, ladies, is relax. Don't be afraid to fix that gourmet dinner for those discriminating neighbors. When the woman panics, as in our case, the man will invariably come through in the clutch. hk
Larry Freeze lives in Topeka and freely gives his appreciative bride, "Louise," valuable cooking advice.
