The Record (Bergen County, NJ)
08-31-1997
DINNER PARTIES, LAND OF THE BRAVE
By MARY AMOROSO
Date: 08-31-1997, Sunday
Section: LIFESTYLE
Edition: All Editions -- Sunday
Column: THE PRESSURED PARENT
I mentioned in a recent column that my husband and I had gone to a
dinner party, as if we go to dinner parties all the time.
AS IF.
Fact of the matter is, we haven't gone to dinner in someone's home
in eons. We haven't invited people to dinner in our home in further
eons. With the exception of Thanksgiving dinner for my brothers-in-law,
I haven't cooked for anyone other than my nuclear family for the entire
3 1/2 years since we've moved to Mahwah. Time does fly, doesn't it?
And the dinner party we recently attended was so beautifully and
remarkably organized that I'll certainly be scared away from
entertaining for even further eons.
This dinner party had a printed, two-page menu, with two choices
for soup (corn chowder or gazpacho); three choices for pasta (including
tricolor ravioli with marinara sauce and spaghetti nests with littleneck
clams); six choices for entree (including stuffed pork chops, crab
cakes, and grilled Chilean sea bass); and two choices for accompaniments
(either molded white and wild rice or garlic-laced mashed potatoes).
There were six or seven desserts, including rum cake, peach
tiramisu, peanut butter pie, chocolate mousse cake, pound cake, and
creme brulee.
All made by the lady of the house.
Who is not a restaurateur or professional chef.
Another mom at the dinner party said to me, "And I consider myself
lucky if I get dinner on the table at night."
My husband was at the other end of the table, picking pansies out
of his salad (three choices of vinaigrette), and saying, "I guess you
don't eat these." And I replied down the table, "Those are edible
flowers." Not, however, where my husband grew up.
The lady of the house had done a great deal of preparation in
advance (her husband said he had been taste-testing all week). She also
had two servers, a bartender, and a grill man to assist her. I figured
with 11 at the table, it was roughly the same staff-to-client ratio
required by state regulations for infant rooms at day care.
And as I sipped my glass of red wine, the gentleman of the house
said, "Do you like that cabernet? With the appreciation on that vintage,
I figure you're drinking a $200 glass of wine." I sipped slower and
said, "Don't tell my husband. He'll choke on his wine." At home, we
consider it a giant step up to elegance when we drink wine from a bottle
instead of a box.
As we prepared to make our farewells, my husband turned to me and
said, "Why don't we have everybody to our house next month?" And I
choked on my coffee and said, "WHAT?"
I can see our printed menu now:
Frankfurters au jus.
Terrine de boeuf hache (aka meatloaf).
Accompaniments of moutarde, catsup, and sauce de Worcestershire.
Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I am the first to
bring a cake (bakery-made) for a co-worker's birthday. But orchestrating
a meal and cleaning one's home prior to that orchestration is beyond my
energy and scope.
And then there are all the other distractions when you have
preschoolers. Can you imagine being in the midst of grilling Chilean sea
bass when your 2-year-old spills 8 ounces of grape juice on your kitchen
floor? (This happened last night.)
Or can you imagine being in the midst of tossing pansies into your
salad when your 4-year-old announces he's gone poop in his pants because
the light wasn't on in the downstairs bathroom? (This happened last
night immediately after the grape-juice spill.)
My husband and my older boys pick on me for not entertaining, and I
do feel guilty sometimes, because I think a good parent teaches children
hospitality, a further refinement on good manners.
Just the other night, my 15-year-old was criticizing my failure to
invite people over.
"Matt," I said to him, "Your father is far more gregarious than I
am. If he wants to entertain, he should organize it."
"But Mom," said Matt, who's known me long enough to know how to
push my buttons, "That's the woman's job."
I refrained from replying.
One of these years I'm sure I'll feel a spontaneous return of the
hospitable spirit. Not only will I clip recipes from magazines, I will
buy the ingredients and send out the invitations. I will move about
graciously in a long hostess skirt as I pass hors d'oeuvres and refill
glasses, and there will be no small child UNDER my skirt impeding my
passage.
I will be about 70.
Don't wait for the invitation.
Coming Thursday: Back to school.
You can reach Pressured Parent Mary Amoroso in care of The Record, 150
River St., Hackensack, N.J. 07601, by phone at (201) 646-4388, by fax at
(201) 646-4047, or by e-mail at newsroom {AT} bergen-record.com. Please
give your name and number so she can talk to you. She will not use your
name in print, if you would prefer that.
Copyright 1997 Bergen Record Corp. All rights reserved.
DINNER PARTIES, LAND OF THE BRAVEMARY AMOROSO
The Record (Bergen County, NJ)
08-31-1997
DINNER PARTIES, LAND OF THE BRAVE
By MARY AMOROSO
Date: 08-31-1997, Sunday
Section: LIFESTYLE
Edition: All Editions -- Sunday
Column: THE PRESSURED PARENT
I mentioned in a recent column that my husband and I had gone to a
dinner party, as if we go to dinner parties all the time.
AS IF.
Fact of the matter is, we haven't gone to dinner in someone's home
in eons. We haven't invited people to dinner in our home in further
eons. With the exception of Thanksgiving dinner for my brothers-in-law,
I haven't cooked for anyone other than my nuclear family for the entire
3 1/2 years since we've moved to Mahwah. Time does fly, doesn't it?
And the dinner party we recently attended was so beautifully and
remarkably organized that I'll certainly be scared away from
entertaining for even further eons.
This dinner party had a printed, two-page menu, with two choices
for soup (corn chowder or gazpacho); three choices for pasta (including
tricolor ravioli with marinara sauce and spaghetti nests with littleneck
clams); six choices for entree (including stuffed pork chops, crab
cakes, and grilled Chilean sea bass); and two choices for accompaniments
(either molded white and wild rice or garlic-laced mashed potatoes).
There were six or seven desserts, including rum cake, peach
tiramisu, peanut butter pie, chocolate mousse cake, pound cake, and
creme brulee.
All made by the lady of the house.
Who is not a restaurateur or professional chef.
Another mom at the dinner party said to me, "And I consider myself
lucky if I get dinner on the table at night."
My husband was at the other end of the table, picking pansies out
of his salad (three choices of vinaigrette), and saying, "I guess you
don't eat these." And I replied down the table, "Those are edible
flowers." Not, however, where my husband grew up.
The lady of the house had done a great deal of preparation in
advance (her husband said he had been taste-testing all week). She also
had two servers, a bartender, and a grill man to assist her. I figured
with 11 at the table, it was roughly the same staff-to-client ratio
required by state regulations for infant rooms at day care.
And as I sipped my glass of red wine, the gentleman of the house
said, "Do you like that cabernet? With the appreciation on that vintage,
I figure you're drinking a $200 glass of wine." I sipped slower and
said, "Don't tell my husband. He'll choke on his wine." At home, we
consider it a giant step up to elegance when we drink wine from a bottle
instead of a box.
As we prepared to make our farewells, my husband turned to me and
said, "Why don't we have everybody to our house next month?" And I
choked on my coffee and said, "WHAT?"
I can see our printed menu now:
Frankfurters au jus.
Terrine de boeuf hache (aka meatloaf).
Accompaniments of moutarde, catsup, and sauce de Worcestershire.
Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I am the first to
bring a cake (bakery-made) for a co-worker's birthday. But orchestrating
a meal and cleaning one's home prior to that orchestration is beyond my
energy and scope.
And then there are all the other distractions when you have
preschoolers. Can you imagine being in the midst of grilling Chilean sea
bass when your 2-year-old spills 8 ounces of grape juice on your kitchen
floor? (This happened last night.)
Or can you imagine being in the midst of tossing pansies into your
salad when your 4-year-old announces he's gone poop in his pants because
the light wasn't on in the downstairs bathroom? (This happened last
night immediately after the grape-juice spill.)
My husband and my older boys pick on me for not entertaining, and I
do feel guilty sometimes, because I think a good parent teaches children
hospitality, a further refinement on good manners.
Just the other night, my 15-year-old was criticizing my failure to
invite people over.
"Matt," I said to him, "Your father is far more gregarious than I
am. If he wants to entertain, he should organize it."
"But Mom," said Matt, who's known me long enough to know how to
push my buttons, "That's the woman's job."
I refrained from replying.
One of these years I'm sure I'll feel a spontaneous return of the
hospitable spirit. Not only will I clip recipes from magazines, I will
buy the ingredients and send out the invitations. I will move about
graciously in a long hostess skirt as I pass hors d'oeuvres and refill
glasses, and there will be no small child UNDER my skirt impeding my
passage.
I will be about 70.
Don't wait for the invitation.
Coming Thursday: Back to school.
You can reach Pressured Parent Mary Amoroso in care of The Record, 150
River St., Hackensack, N.J. 07601, by phone at (201) 646-4388, by fax at
(201) 646-4047, or by e-mail at newsroom {AT} bergen-record.com. Please
give your name and number so she can talk to you. She will not use your
name in print, if you would prefer that.
Copyright 1997 Bergen Record Corp. All rights reserved.
DINNER PARTIES, LAND OF THE BRAVEMARY AMOROSO
The Record (Bergen County, NJ)
08-31-1997
DINNER PARTIES, LAND OF THE BRAVE
By MARY AMOROSO
Date: 08-31-1997, Sunday
Section: LIFESTYLE
Edition: All Editions -- Sunday
Column: THE PRESSURED PARENT
I mentioned in a recent column that my husband and I had gone to a
dinner party, as if we go to dinner parties all the time.
AS IF.
Fact of the matter is, we haven't gone to dinner in someone's home
in eons. We haven't invited people to dinner in our home in further
eons. With the exception of Thanksgiving dinner for my brothers-in-law,
I haven't cooked for anyone other than my nuclear family for the entire
3 1/2 years since we've moved to Mahwah. Time does fly, doesn't it?
And the dinner party we recently attended was so beautifully and
remarkably organized that I'll certainly be scared away from
entertaining for even further eons.
This dinner party had a printed, two-page menu, with two choices
for soup (corn chowder or gazpacho); three choices for pasta (including
tricolor ravioli with marinara sauce and spaghetti nests with littleneck
clams); six choices for entree (including stuffed pork chops, crab
cakes, and grilled Chilean sea bass); and two choices for accompaniments
(either molded white and wild rice or garlic-laced mashed potatoes).
There were six or seven desserts, including rum cake, peach
tiramisu, peanut butter pie, chocolate mousse cake, pound cake, and
creme brulee.
All made by the lady of the house.
Who is not a restaurateur or professional chef.
Another mom at the dinner party said to me, "And I consider myself
lucky if I get dinner on the table at night."
My husband was at the other end of the table, picking pansies out
of his salad (three choices of vinaigrette), and saying, "I guess you
don't eat these." And I replied down the table, "Those are edible
flowers." Not, however, where my husband grew up.
The lady of the house had done a great deal of preparation in
advance (her husband said he had been taste-testing all week). She also
had two servers, a bartender, and a grill man to assist her. I figured
with 11 at the table, it was roughly the same staff-to-client ratio
required by state regulations for infant rooms at day care.
And as I sipped my glass of red wine, the gentleman of the house
said, "Do you like that cabernet? With the appreciation on that vintage,
I figure you're drinking a $200 glass of wine." I sipped slower and
said, "Don't tell my husband. He'll choke on his wine." At home, we
consider it a giant step up to elegance when we drink wine from a bottle
instead of a box.
As we prepared to make our farewells, my husband turned to me and
said, "Why don't we have everybody to our house next month?" And I
choked on my coffee and said, "WHAT?"
I can see our printed menu now:
Frankfurters au jus.
Terrine de boeuf hache (aka meatloaf).
Accompaniments of moutarde, catsup, and sauce de Worcestershire.
Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I am the first to
bring a cake (bakery-made) for a co-worker's birthday. But orchestrating
a meal and cleaning one's home prior to that orchestration is beyond my
energy and scope.
And then there are all the other distractions when you have
preschoolers. Can you imagine being in the midst of grilling Chilean sea
bass when your 2-year-old spills 8 ounces of grape juice on your kitchen
floor? (This happened last night.)
Or can you imagine being in the midst of tossing pansies into your
salad when your 4-year-old announces he's gone poop in his pants because
the light wasn't on in the downstairs bathroom? (This happened last
night immediately after the grape-juice spill.)
My husband and my older boys pick on me for not entertaining, and I
do feel guilty sometimes, because I think a good parent teaches children
hospitality, a further refinement on good manners.
Just the other night, my 15-year-old was criticizing my failure to
invite people over.
"Matt," I said to him, "Your father is far more gregarious than I
am. If he wants to entertain, he should organize it."
"But Mom," said Matt, who's known me long enough to know how to
push my buttons, "That's the woman's job."
I refrained from replying.
One of these years I'm sure I'll feel a spontaneous return of the
hospitable spirit. Not only will I clip recipes from magazines, I will
buy the ingredients and send out the invitations. I will move about
graciously in a long hostess skirt as I pass hors d'oeuvres and refill
glasses, and there will be no small child UNDER my skirt impeding my
passage.
I will be about 70.
Don't wait for the invitation.
Coming Thursday: Back to school.
You can reach Pressured Parent Mary Amoroso in care of The Record, 150
River St., Hackensack, N.J. 07601, by phone at (201) 646-4388, by fax at
(201) 646-4047, or by e-mail at newsroom {AT} bergen-record.com. Please
give your name and number so she can talk to you. She will not use your
name in print, if you would prefer that.
Copyright 1997 Bergen Record Corp. All rights reserved.
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