We had Dad and J (the girlfriend) over for dinner on June 19. I’m sure you remember the last time I had family over for dinner. This one had a slightly less Benny Hill flavor to it, but was still sufficient to convince me that I should never host my family again. Three years later is still too soon.A little background: Dad and J dated in college, and reconnected on Facebook earlier this year. He’s, predictably, head-over-heels for her again, and every little thing she does is magic. She lives in Morgantown, WV, so in order for her to meet (most of) the family, he had to cart her all over Northern Virginia. He had already brought her home to meet UncleR, AuntG, and CousinM (from whom I got most of my information about her in the first place). We were asked for a couple of hours to get to know her, so we extended the invitation to dinner, either out or in. He chose dinner at our place. I’m least myself when I small-talk, and instead I preferred to cook for them and show them my hospitality. I don’t know about you, but I learn most about a person by what they do and how they treat others; I almost never trust the words that they say.
Like last time, I planned out a very nice menu: chicken saltimbocca roulade, risotto primavera, sautéed squash, and mango icebox pie, paired with a light Sauvignon Blanc to complement the spring-and-summer flavors. Husband and I went to the grocery store early to get the ingredients, and he dashed over to the liquor store to make sure we had makings for the drinks of choice: martinis for Dad, gin-and-tonic for J. They were due over at 5:30, and we spent literally all day from the time we got home until that time cleaning the house and preparing food as far in advance as we could so that only a little time would be spent cooking while they were here.
At 5:30, the pie was chilled, the chicken was rolled, the risotto items were prepped and measured, the martini glasses were in the freezer, the china and silver were out on the kitchen table, and the coffee table was set with snack mix in finger bowls as a pre-dinner snack. At 5:45, Husband and I were still sitting on the couch, alone. They finally arrived a little after 6:00, having gotten caught up at Grandad’s. All right, no harm done. Let’s get the drinks out and be gracious and welcoming to Dad’s girlfriend. I managed about half an hour of small talk – where’d you go to school, what do you do, how’d you meet, how far along are you – and then I had to duck into the kitchen to get started on the risotto and such. (Have you ever made risotto? It involves 30 solid minutes of stirring while the rice gradually absorbs the broth. See? I learned something that night.)
Husband entertained them with vacation pictures and work talk while I cooked like a fiend (Husband's a far better host than I am anyway). I suspect Dad doesn’t realize that my hearing is outstanding and that the kitchen is only the next room over, because at some point, I heard Dad explaining why I lived with him when Mom and Sister moved away. He told the story that I had stayed to finish high school at the same school, which was partially true. He added, “Yep, she didn’t stay for me, she stayed for the school.” Consciously, I know he thought he was being funny, but the spark was lit: “You really want to play amateur therapy hour?” He just looked at me confused, and I ducked back into the kitchen before that conversation thread could take hold. Seriously, aren’t we supposed to be putting on our Sunday Best so that we don’t scare away the new girlfriend, and you’re going to play passive-aggressive, poor-little-me games? I know better, and I’m embarrassed that I took the bait, but it was done, and to her credit, J didn’t bat an eyelash.
Dinner went smoothly for the most part except when Dad tried to goad me a little more, and when he started in again about how we absolutely had to get a convection microwave when we replaced our ghetto-fabulous double-oven range (builder stock from the 80s). He also tried to tell Husband to quit his job, get another certification, and get another job for more money (Husband makes fine money, and even if he didn’t, it’s none of Dad’s business). I’m sure there were some more points of interest, but I’ve managed to block them. J seemed to be a nice lady who had her head on straight, seemed to keep Dad more or less in line, and seemed to handle Dad’s rants with grace, so I wish them the best. When they left, everyone seemed to have had a more or less nice time.
A week later, I received an email from Dad, thanking us for having them over. However, he thought that dinner had probably not been a good idea, since I had been in the kitchen so long, and since the whole purpose of them coming was for J and us to "get to know one another." This from the man who thinks that Husband and I should stay over at his house during the Christmas Eve misery because he "doesn't feel like [he] really knows me." I'm so glad I spent all that money and all that effort into making something nice for them just to have my hands slapped again. Next time you want to ensure that you get all the face-time you want, how about you show up on time and we go out to eat instead.
No comments:
Post a Comment