Living More and More and More

I blame my parents. They were not big entertainers while I was growing up. They hosted the occasional Bible study that consisted of potluck surprise, sodas, and coffee. I especially loved Triscuits with thick slabs of whipped cheese that came in a shiny glazed crock with a red stay fresh rubber seal.  Sometimes there was ambrosia or Havarti with dill, but that was about as "fancy" as the food got at these events, as I recall. Fittingly, unpretentious food was served on paper plates that sagged from too many helpings of runny German potato salad and Dixie cups. It was after all, a gathering to enrich your spiritual life, not your palate. 


There is no reason to blame anyone for not showing me how to throw an amazing soiree. But, it seems to me, people who grew up with parents who entertain, do it with greater ease. Dinner parties require a plan, a menu, a grocery list, the right stemware, matching forks and knives, serving dishes, wine, music, and lots of yummy yummy food. Though, a group feast (hopefully) need not be an unattainable goal. However, when executed masterfully, dinner at your house can feel like a feat of Fête. 


Last night, two friends and my roommate joined me for a dinner that I have fancied recreating ever since I had something very similar in my friend's Belgian kitchen eight or nine years ago. Now, my hosts are practiced and talented entertainers. Pierre can throw together a sumptuous, three or four course meal in a small space, while drinking a whole bottle of wine and debating politics. His wife and my childhood friend, Jill, is his perfect assistant, filling his wine glass while she juliennes carrots, wraps enoki mushrooms with bacon, and keeps her hungry guests entertained with colorful stories. It was a delight to watch them work in tandem. He asks his wife, to please get the butter. She moves to the refrigerator and asks, more wine? He says, Yes, please! She brings out the butter, unwraps it, and cuts it into the portion that he needed before pouring all of us another glass. As I'm filling up with wine, bread, cheese, and Saucisson a Ail, the kitchen is also filling up with the smell of melting butter, boiling endive, and roasting bacon fat. In short, good friends, good food, great memory. The challenge for me was that I had not attempted to make these dishes before (that I can remember) and I do not often have a dinner party (I prefer to call it "dinner at my house") because of my Host Anxiety.


Yes. Host Anxiety is real. I know it is real because I saw it for seven years in the fundraising business in New York City. You show me an event planner without Host Anxiety and you will get one pathetic event. Add the desire to recreate some of those delicious moments of shared bliss over perfectly bubbling raclette, baby potatoes, and cornichons, and I am furtively searching on the internet for the right temperature to heat raclette. Why am I feeling guilty about this gathering of lovely women around my table? 


I blame the Mennonites. Specifically, Doris Janzen Longacre, for writing a book that parallels American wastefulness and its detrimental effects on the lives of millions in Africa and other third world countries with spiritual hunger. It was published in the conspicuous consumption 1980's. Copies must have flown off the shelf! Did you know that envelopes can be reused for note taking? Longacre's example of reusing an envelope seemed to say that recycling is kind of the existential equivalent to saving a life. I just want to make dinner for my friends. Incidentally, I did reuse some paper to write down my menu plan, my grocery list, and my order for preparation by course. Only, now the other side of paper is not caring enough. Newly aware of my puny efforts, I faced a tough decision about where to buy the ham? Local farmer? I tried last Saturday at the PSU farmers market. No one was selling the right kind of ham. Do I go to the neighborhood specialty store for the ham? Or would it be less waste to go to one place for all of the ingredients on the Max (Portland's mass transit)? Frankly, this is living more with less when compared to living in cities like Brussels or New York City, where you can always buy Jambon de Bayonne, year round, conveniently, AND at 3 a.m. I settled on the latter and took my own grocery sacks, because that is who I am now.  A socially self-conscious poser, rather not a Mennonite.


[This was supposed to be a post about the lovely dinner party last night, but instead, this writing has turned into part-confession, part-satire.  I'm going with it. So, stop here or read on...]


The reason for this dinner was not just to relive the past, but in celebration of a personal achievement, in which, these local ladies (and several other people living in Arizona, New York and Pennsylvania) played a major role as guinea pigs, critics, and cheerleaders. I wanted to throw a party for everyone but that just was not possible without bending our space-time continuum into a banyan tree knot. Messy! It was enough for me to prepare this meal for these ladies, with my heartfelt thanks and drool. 


Cheese is more than food. Cheese is creamy comfort and utterly fulfilling. My menu pivoted around raclette cheese and a bottle of 2009 Belle Pente Pinot Noir from grapes grown in the Dundee Hills, less than an hour south of Portland. As menus go, the one I chose last night was simple. The first course was a venison pate from Chop Butchery & Charcuterie served with french bread, cornichons, black mission figs, and ripened red pears. The second course was endive, wrapped in Niman Ranch Jambon Royal, covered in bechamel sauce and baked until done, topped with a mixture of asiago, parmesan, and romano cheeses. The final course was the baked raclette. The recipe I found online called for plates heated in 500 degrees until hot. The last time I turned up the oven to 500 all hell broke loose. So, I opted for 400 degrees. Well, after the Pinot Noir and then a Sangiovese from Trader Joe's, I was so enjoying the conversation that I OVERCOOKED the raclette! I brought the melted puddle of cheese to the table with boiled baby golden potatoes and we each scooped a bit of the cheesy puddle over our potatoes. They got the idea of raclette's wonderfully smooth texture and taste. [It is surprising that I do not own a fondue pot nor a raclette, the way I go on about cheese.] Let us not forget that cooking can also be about exploration and testing your limits. Unfortunately, my limit is two courses and two glasses of wine. Thankfully, my guests were appreciative and scooping up bechamel with bread crusts, eating almost every last bite placed before them.


I blame the heart for the follies of the body. Each one of us probably ate a pound of dairy. When you are an amateur entertainer, you cannot go wrong with dairy. Well, unless you overcook your cheese. But, it was still edible. And we ate it up! Upon reflection, I know that what I enjoyed last night, may have caused/ cause another soul harm. Not to mention, all that dairy may come to haunt me tonight. There are few other ways to illicite such joy in a group setting and fully clothed than a wonderful meal. For the smiles, the little moans, and sighs of delight from my fellow partiers, I would gladly do it all over again. Although, I would serve the pate at room temperature. I would bake the endive and ham closer to service. I would not melt the cheese. I would have two different types of Pinot Noir and enough red wine glasses to go around. I would serve on recyclable plates and serving dishes. And, I would make sure my camera worked in order to record that I am living more and more and more.