Last night’s party was mostly sitting around the dining room table swapping stories. It was a lot of fun.
I learned about tickle grass, and working in freezers, and interesting expressions used in rural Georgia, and boiled peanuts.
The Divine Mrs. M had brought her famous manicotti, and there was a chocolate cake called “Cousin Mildred’s Chocolate Cake,” so you know it had to be good. Apart from that, it was all vegetables. I took a cucumber salad made from a recipe in Prevention.There were three other salads, the provenance of which I don’t know, and a bit of bread. We all marveled at how gorgeous the plates of food were with all their colors.
Another plus about healthy eating.
My husband said, as I made the salad, “You’re cooking for the party. Not cooking for the people at home.”
He was invited to the party, of course. He never goes to social events with me, but he’s my husband. He’s always invited. A lot of the women I know have the same experience, so I don’t hold it against him, but it does seem to me that he shouldn’t complain when it’s his own choice.
Besides, I knew I’d be leaving the menfolks to fend for themselves, so I got a revolting and enormous package of pre-seasoned ribs for them to cook.
#2 son said, “We’ll feast like kings!” His stance while saying this was the one used in movies to show that some foe has been vanquished. Then the camera, presumably in a helicopter, wheels away into the sky in a circle so you can see the man exulting against a background of impressive scenery.
His brother consulted with me on how best to prepare a jar of baked beans to go with the slabs of meat. They were fine.