A Blithe PALATE

Pug's First Birthday (The Best Year Ever)

             

Pug turned one on Friday. 

To celebrate, we drove to down to Florida, where Ong and Ba Ngoai live, and where Grandma and Grandpa happened to be visiting.  Among my most treasured photos are those of birthdays in which I was surrounded by grandparents, siblings and cousins -- a madhouse of familial cacophony.  It was a great (if deafening) indoctrination for Pug.  Pug's first birthday was spent with both sets of grandparents, Uncle Bo and numerous extended family members including second and third cousins.  Uncle Stan very nearly made it too, but had a last minute work situation arise; Aunts Hani, Souris and Kaly were in between phases of traveling but all called to wish him a happy birthday. 

When I was growing up, my mother made all of our cakes; I could not imagine outsourcing Baby's first cake so I made one based on the baby blocks cake from my shower.  The cake was a lemon pound cake with cream cheese frosting and wrapped in colored sheets of white chocolate linen, which I use in lieu of fondant.  I find the taste of fondant revolting; the chocolate linen serves the same function, but with superior flavor.

Tonight, we were at a restaurant with Ong Ba Ngoai (Grandma and Grandpa continued on their trip and will meet up again with us in two weeks) and Uncle Bo.  Our server, noting the table littered with baby toys and homemade food laughed.  "What did you ever do before a baby?" she queried.

Pug was a little more exhausted than usual; his birthday party yesterday began at 5 pm and ran through midnight, Pug conking out an hour later than his normal 8:30 pm bedtime; nestled in his sling in my arms, he rested his head on my chest and fell asleep.

What did we do before our Puggle?

We had forgotten how to appreciate the joys of discovery.  Blasé and world weary, we have rediscovered how to enjoy long-forgotten "firsts."  The first feel of rain on a cheek.  The first taste of jam.  The purring of a cat when a chubby hand is taught to stroke her back (and her startled shriek when a chubby fist grabs hold of her tail). 

We did not know that hearts can literally melt when Baby smiles his first toothy grin.

We did not know there was such good in the world; or see a world of such danger.

We woke and slept at will; but we have accepted that the giggling we hear in the morning is the best wake up call imaginable.

We worked and earned a buck, but now with direction and purpose.  Everything is for Puggle.

Before Puggle I did not know how warm a baby's body feels when he falls asleep on your chest, or how full he makes your arms feel. 

The only other thing that overflows as much is your heart, and especially when you see your husband cuddling with your son.

I could go on and on.  When Puggle was born, my aunt Lori sent me a message:  "Welcome to true love," she wrote.

So back to the question:  what did we do before Pug came along? 

We were waiting to discover this true love in the best year ever of our lives.

Tea Party: Snapshots.

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it:  a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and the talking over its head. 

"Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,'" thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind.'"
-Lewis Carroll

Pasadena, 1993 - The Huntington Library

"I suggest tea at the Huntington Library." 

I am excited.  I have never had a formal tea service.

And I will not with this man.  He never delivers on this or many other promises that trip. 

"Do me a favor," Robert tells me when I call to cancel dinner reservations for the third time (because I have been stood up for the third time).  Robert is the owner of Bistro 45, one of my favorite restaurants.  "Tell him I think he's a complete jerk, won't you?"

Robert is protective...and incensed.  I am stupidly, foolishly in love for the first time, ever.  Robert can voice what I, in my heart of hearts, am thinking, but can not say.

Years later, Peggy and I attempt to have tea there, near The Blue Boy, but it is too late for tea.  We are turned away.

I have never had tea at the Huntington.  Perhaps I'm never meant to.

Atlanta 1998 - The Ritz Carlton

"I don't want any trouble. I just want to be alone and quiet in a room with a chair and a fireplace and a tea cozy. I don't even know what a tea cozy is, but I want one."" - Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Tea cozies are ridiculous.  Who the hell decided that a hot pot of tea needed a sweater?

Peggy and I are in the dining room of the Ritz Carlton in Atlanta having tea. I have heard about tea at the Ritz for years.  We have a champagne tea service.  It's a let down.  I'm glad to be with Peggy but the Ritz Carlton in Atlanta is a complete waste of time.  It lacks the mystique and finesse of other Ritz Carltons.  The room is boring and dingy.  Nothing on the tea tray recommends itself to memory.  Even the Earl Grey is forgettable.

London 2000 -- Harrod's

Not so at this venerable locale.  Once again with Peggy and enjoying  a lovely afternoon tea.  We are so hungry that we consume all the sandwiches and ask for more...three times.  Funny, why don't I remember scones and cream with this tea service?

Savannah 2000 - The Gryphon Tea Room at SCAD

Hani and I make a weekend run to Savannah.  We make last minute reservations at a bed and breakfast while driving to the city.

"They have a jacuzzi in the room" Hani says.

The jacuzzi is actually a large tub with jets.  When I turn it on (because we had paid for it and I felt compelled to use the darn thing), the noise level is so appallingly loud that Hani and I both freeze, then begin laughing hysterically.  This is nothing compared to our later shock when our neighbors engage quite loudly in coitus.  Both of us seated on the ginormous king sized bed reading, she and I pause, dumbstruck, incredulity giving way to smirking and smirking lapsing to all out hilarity. 

The next morning, at breakfast, when a young couple joins the rest of the table for breakfast, I can't refrain from snorting, a nasal version of, "They had sex!  They had sex!"  Hani is appalled.  I am so childish.

Walking through the city squares, Hani and I stumble across The Gryphon Tea Room.  Sidling up the bar, I squeal in delight, seeing tins of my favorite Mariages Frères teas -- but alas!  They do not have Marco Polo.

On the other hand, they have wonderful scones and I learn a new trick:  you can substitute mascarpone cheese for Devon cream. 

At the long bar, the sun pouring through the windows, my sister and I have tea and we talk quietly about the changes in our lives and the adventures yet to come.

 

Santa Monica, 2002 - Tudor House

Hubby -- then the Significant Other -- humors me by having tea at this British wannabe tea house in sunny Santa Monica.  As soon as service is complete however, he makes a beeline for the door telling me that he's going across the street to the would be British pub, to watch a soccer game in progress.

I linger to purchase some items in the gift shop.  I am on my way over to the pub to join him when he meets me in the street.

"What happened?" I ask.  "I thought you were going to watch soccer?"

"You know what's wrong with a faux British pub in Santa Monica?"

"What's that?"

"The faux British people."

"Oh," I respond.  "This is L.A.  Everyone's faux."

 Bisley, 2003 - Bisley Camp

Pete has a tiny kitchenette in his caravan and I am able to make a batch of scones.  Hubby -- newly Hubby at that -- has been on the range all day; it's a cold day and I know he will like a spot of tea and warm scones.  There are enough to share with Pete and some of his friends who have joined.  Seated in lawn chairs outside the camper around a barbecue pit, it seems almost normal to have tea whilst in the background the continuous report of gunfire can be heard.

Among the men -- most of whom are quite lovely -- is one gentleman whose accent is so plummy I can barely comprehend him, which is just as well since I think he has too high an opinion of himself.  He does say something funny though.

"Do you know what the difference between shit and shite is?"

"Um..no?"

"The same difference between Smith and Smythe."

Paris, 2004  -  Mariages Frères (in the Marais) 

From our perch at the window in the upstairs tea salon of this particular branch of the venerable tea house, Jules regards me with faraway eyes.  She says there is no one she would rather be with at this moment, but I know I am not the person she longs to be with in  Paris.  I am taken back four years earlier, to my time in Paris with Peggy when I was nursing my own wounds. I am now in Peggy's role and I am filled with gratitude to her; she gave me the tools with which to manage and gently handle Jules' broken heart.

She is trying a smoky tea called Czar Alexandre. I am imbibing my usual Marco Polo.

I lean over and say to her very seriously and very earnestly:  "Jules.  In one year, you will look back on this moment and marvel that you ever felt the way you do."

She doesn't believe me.

But one year later, blissfully enjoying her new home and her new life, she says to me, "Paris was where things changed for me."

The miracle of time and tea to heal all wounds.

London 2006 - Kensington Palace

The orangerie of Kensington Palace is exquisitely sunny.  A wall of windows makes brightens the entire room, despite the grey outside.  Oh if only I had a home with 20 foot ceilings, I would have windows this high too.

Kaly is concerned that the tea service here is not very good.

I assure her it is just fine.  I am having hot chocolate though, because the raisin scones are not enough to satisfy my need for something sweet and rich.

"Should we go to Kensington Palace?" I ask.

The palace where Diana, Princess of Wales, once lived, is only a stone's throw away.

Kaly is not given to touristy excursions during her annual trip to London but she agrees to accompany me.  Oh what a dreadful tourist trap it is.

Wimbledon 2006 - Wimbledon

"Let's watch Federer break this guy, then we'll go have tea," says Hubby. 

Through a bit of luck and very well connected friends, we are enjoying our first trip to Wimbledon in high style.  The day began with champagne, Pimm's and a sit down lunch service before we are given tickets to the various courts.  At first I am disappointed that we do not have tickets to Centre Court.  But Hubby whispers to me, "No no, we want to be at Number 1 Court because Roger Federer is playing." 

Can you imagine that at my first live tennis match, I am at Number 1 Court at Wimbledon watching Roger Federer play?

But it is blazingly, horribly hot. No one knows yet what we know:  I am pregnant.  The heat is nearly unbearable.  But Federer does what he does best and soon thereafter, Hubby and I escape to the air-conditioned tent in the cordoned-off VIP area.  Across from our tent is the NBC tent where I see some famous faces passing by.

Inside our tent, a full tea service is already waiting and several members of our party are indulging while cheering on Argentina in the World Cup, which is being shown on two large plasma screen TVs.  I am telling you, I have never had first class service so exquisite. 

"How do we top this?" I murmur to Hubby as we sit down to a gorgeous tray of sandwiches, sweets and scones.  Devon Double Cream does not taste as good anywhere in the world as it does in England and I am suffused with delight. 

When Roger Federer comes out of the NBC tent later that afternoon and genially signs my Wimbledon program book, Hubby says, "We don't.  I think this is it."

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The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: 'No room! No room!'" they cried out when they saw Alice coming.

"There's plenty of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

Alice is correct:  there's plenty of room.  Where should we meet for tea?

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You definitely want Tea Party by Tracy Stern.  This book is exquisite. I thought I knew about tea parties but Tracy Stern is a tea goddess and has some really inspiring ideas.

Cake, Tea Parties and Lying.

My girlfriends hosted a tea party last Saturday.  They know how much I adore tea.  If I could, I'd have high tea every afternoon.  As my sister Kaly puts it, "Like civilized people do."

I have the best girlfriends in the world.  And the worst liar for a husband.  As I've pointed out to him:  "Even when I don't acknowledge it, that doesn't mean I don't know when you've lied -- or are lying -- to me."  He's never successfully prevaricated to me in the seven years we've been together.  He just doesn't understand that years ago, I catalogued his ticks and tells.

Last Thursday, he called me and said, "Oh John wanted me to ask you about a cake that you made for one of our dinner parties.  He couldn't remember what was in it but he wanted to find out and find a recipe online to make it.  Was it our wedding cake?"  Our wedding cake was based on a family recipe and Alicia, our pastry goddess friend, made it for us based on my specifications from our family recipe.  The recipe is also the basis of my annual Buche de Noel.  "What was in our wedding cake?"

Me:  "Genoise and Italian buttercream.  Raspberry buttercream filling and coffee buttercream exterior, wrapped in white chocolate wrapping paper and covered with raspberries."

If you're going to lie about something, don't lie about food to your wife who knows what she's made for people to eat.  In my head, I'm pretty familiar with all the different meals and desserts I've prepared for friends at our dinner parties over the years; and more so because I print up menu cards so I know what I served.  And especially don't attempt to lie about desserts.  In all the dinners John and his wife Christy have had at our house, I've never baked a cake.  I've only made our wedding cake for 2 dinner parties:  for Jenn and Joetta; and for our parents and Aunt Rose.  And furthermore, if you're going to lie about someone wanting a recipe, don't pick the person who is least likely to cook or bake.  And why on earth wouldn't you ask me for the recipe instead of having said person go search the internet? It's a family recipe.  It doesn't exist on the internet except in other variations!

To compound matters, when you lie, make sure John and his wife don't come over to sit down next to your wife that same night at a work dinner party while you are getting drinks leaving your wife alone with them to ask John:  "Oh, did you get what you needed for the recipe?"

John:  "What recipe?"

Me:  "The cake recipe?"

John:  "What cake recipe?"

Me:  "The cake recipe that Hubby said you wanted?"

Christy:  "Uh, John doesn't cook."

And by the way, when you come back and attempt to co-opt John into agreeing with you, you should get someone who is much better at reading your blatant and bad signals:  "Remember John?  You asked about the recipe?"

John:  "No."

When you start laughing uncontrollably because you are so busted, it does not add to your credibility.

But...as it turns out, Hubby's foray in mendacity was for a good reason.  The girlfriends wanted to make a cake for me but didn't know what my favorite flavors are...so they asked Hubby to find out.  Despite the fact that they chose the wrong envoy, they still managed to surprise and delight me with an unexpected and wonderful cake. 

I love tea parties -- love them.  And was so happy to have several of my favorite girls with whom to imbibe five different teas, sandwiches, scones with jams, quiches and other delectables.  The best part?  Time with the girls.  We don't get to do this often...but it's so nice to chat over a tea service.  And laugh at how badly our husbands lie.

photos courtesy of my sister Hani...

Multiplication

I'm traumatized.  And short-circuited.  For the first time ever in my cooking and entertaining life, I am at a complete and utter loss.

Kellie:  "Call the post, 'Multiplication.'  Like how x pounds of chicken times y pounds of meat times 50 people equals near disaster."

Greg:  "Write the factual events."

1 tent.  Five tables.  Forty chairs.  Ten pounds of chicken.  Three pounds of ground pork.  Six pounds of flank steak.  Four pounds of salmon.  Eight pounds of pasta. One pound of pesto.  One pound cake with cream cheese frosting.  Two pumpkin cheesecakes.  Fifty chocolate mousse and lemon mousse tarts.  Forty chocolate dipped strawberries.  Four cases of beer, twelve bottles of wine.  Forty confirmed guests (the delay to Sunday cost us ten guests) and enough food to accomodate several more.  One lunatic, ably assisted by two long-suffering friends.

Kellie:  "Multiplication.  So many meanings.  Being so close to Easter, the bunny theme is appropriate.  Given how people multiplied last night."

Greg:  "Remember the end scene in 'Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit' where they populate the bunnies on the estate and rabbits start popping up all over the place?"

The horror.  The horror.

Sunday, noon

The rented tent and the tables on the lawn look great.  I've decided I want to own a tent because it really sets the mood for a festive event.  It also keeps people outside, on the damn lawn, and not wandering inside through my house when I'm prepping and cooking.

Everything is ready to go.  I'm pretty confident that I'll be able enjoy the party because I've got everything planned to the minute.

Alas.  Hubby has remarked more than once: "No plan survives first contact."

2:00 pm

Kellie shows up to help me.  I send her outside to put tablecloths and votives on the tables.

"You crazy person!  You have tablecloths for rented tables?  Did you make them?  Weave the cloth?"

"No...I didn't have time."

She shakes her head and goes off to set the tables.

Amanda calls; her husband has just left for his new post and she's down so I ask her to come over and join the party. 

"Six o'clock," I tell her.

She decides to come early and help me.  Like me, she's unable to resist the lure of cooking for others.

Kellie comes back in.  "What are we doing for napkins?"

"Oh, I sewed some last night -- "

"SHUT UP!"

I smirk and hand her a stack of paper napkins.

5:30 pm

We started cooking in earnest around 4:30, getting appetizers ready.  I finished pounding chicken breasts into a flat, uniform style (for faster and more even cooking) with my handy-dandy All Clad pot, swearing in between every two or three whacks and yelling, "I need a mallet!" 

The first guest arrives on time at 6:00.  We're "Go."  Chicken breasts are pre-cooked on the grill pan, then placed in a warm chafing dish with Marsala and mushroom cream sauce.  Flank steaks are quickly seared and sliced.  The salmon dishes are the easiest:  in and out of the oven with their marinade in 12 minutes.  The pasta salads go out along with a small green salad.  By 6:30 the line forms at the buffet table.

6:45 pm

Kellie and I turn off our respective burners.  Amanda puts aside her cutting board.  The food is out on the patio table and people have made their way around the buffet.  Everyone's sitting and eating at the tables under the tent.  It's still light out, and cool, perfect outdoor party weather.  I almost feel like I've finally managed to throw a grown up party -- everything looks pulled together.  No weird last minute emergencies.  The three of us are done cooking and ready to walk out for a plate of our own and a seat under the tent.

6:46 pm

Eighteen people show up on the lawn unexpectedly.

6:47 pm

Hubby told me that he had invited extra people, which was fine since I had accounted for an extra ten in food prep.  However, they in turn invited others to join and no one tells me.  I was expecting an additional nine; not eighteen.  And then the ultimate nightmare reveals itself to me:  there isn't enough food on the buffet.

6:48 pm

The staggering horror sets in.  The burners go back on and the chopping begins again in earnest.  There's enough food on the table to cover some of the new guests.  But we need more dishes.  Kellie mans the range grill and we throw on more chicken and flank steak.  Amanda makes a caprese salad and denudes the remainder of the indoor basil plant.  I prep to make a linguine with white clam sauce because it's (1) filling to make up for lack of other items which have already been consumed; (2) I have all the ingredients at hand; and (3) it's fast.

We cook and cook and cook.  Some people, lacking a distinct sense of timing, come in to make requests and inquiries.  I think to myself, "I am cooking!  I am cooking!  Go away!  I can't give you recipes right now!"

A dear (unsuspecting) friend, comes into the house with a request from one of the other guests.  "He wants ketchup, mustard and chopped onions."

"Really?" I respond without breaking stride, hot pan hitting the burner.  "Tell him to go f#$& himself."

Blessedly, my friend laughs.  "I'll tell him."

Those who come in to thank us for the food, to offer help, or to say hello are much more welcome. 

8:15 pm

Everything is out on the table including desserts.  Because we hadn't planned to cook for so many people, dinner moved right on into dessert making. 

When it's all over, Kellie, Amanda and I simply stare at each other, survivors of a collective trauma none of us can discuss quite yet.  We speak in hushed tones, as if we have encountered an unspeakable evil whose name cannot be mentioned.  Amanda leaves to take care of her dogs.  Kellie and I try to grab some private time under the tent with a plate of linguine.  We have no interest in talking to anyone.  We just want to eat and share our mutual psychic pain.  The tent under which we are sitting is apropos though more in the circus sense than the festive sense.

Then I survey the scene before me:  people gathered around the buffet table, laughing and talking, obviously enjoying themselves.  The whole point of the party was to introduce old team members to new team members and to give everyone a place to relax after a long day of practice.  Friends I get to see once a year or every few years stop by to say hello and to give me a hug.  It's a relaxed scene.  Wasn't this what we intended?

Kellie:  "I think this was very successful."

More people, more fun.  Multiplication.  Good times.

But I am still traumatized.

Joetta's Baby Shower

Elf Shop, as I mentioned previously, is what Hubby calls my paper hobby (predilection). I suppose I should confess that in addition to my absolute fascination with food, I am also terribly preoccupied with (read: obsessive about) paper. Handmade papers, cardstocks, vellums, silk threaded, embossed, engraved -- you name it, I've probably got it, and in just about every color variation under the sun. My sister Hani and I used to spend hours poring over sample books from paper manufacturers. Fox River, Mohawk, and Neenah Paper are as familiar to me as All Clad, Cuisinart and Henckels. I have a custom designed closet in my office to store boxes of papers and assorted notions (specialty scissors, cutting boards, glues and adhesives, ribbons, stamps, inks, pens, etc.).

I like to design and make menus to accompany our dinners, and when the occasion warrants, I'll make invitations as well. Remember the wedding that featured the Red Velvet Cake from Hell? I made the wedding invitations (never mind that the cake was making me fit for Bedlam), too because I couldn't say no to a paper project!

While cleaning up yesterday, I found a large folder of planning notes, cards and menus from various parties. I thought I'd write about some of my favorite food/paper projects.

Joetta is a dear friend; easy going, fun, and effortlessly elegant. For her baby shower last year, I wanted the event to reflect the same qualities. I like odd sized cards, so I made invitations in an A2 size with heavy cardstock. They were folded in half with a two inch scalloped edge flap, then sealed with button. Each card featured different cover scenes. Guests were asked to pen a note on the inside cover and to bring the cards to the party so Joetta could have personal notes from her friends and mementos for her baby scrapbook.

I absolutely loved Heidi Swanson's post about a friend's baby shower, so I borrowed a page from these very creative folks and set up a crafts table in the dining room where guests transformed white onesies and baby bibs into personalized gifts using stamps and bright fabric paint. I also set up a waffle station in the kitchen with prepared batter, whipped cream, ice cream, and other goodies, for do-it-yourself desserts.

Jules, who was visiting, says I was cooking when she went to sleep and when she woke up, I was still cooking. Slight exaggeration. But we made a lot of food, even for a crew of thirty: baked Brie puffs, roasted balsamic-honey salmon, Sake shrimp in fried wonton with ginger aioli, a couple of quiches among other things. In addition to the dessert tray, I made a lemon pound cake with cream cheese frosting. The giraffe was cut from tinted chocolate "wrapping paper." Not a perfect cake, design wise, but then again, yummy. Considering how much we had, there was surprisingly little left over when the party ended.

This was a fun party; I got to indulge all the essentials: food, friends, and hobbies. As it turns out, I've got an extra 10 cards that can be customized for someone else's baby shower. If you want them, leave a comment or send me an email and you can have 'em. Have fun.

Game Night

Hubby's threshold for Pictionary is exactly three rounds. Beyond that and his blood pressure shoots to 149/89. The first time we played, we were vacationing with his sister and her in-laws in North Carolina. He elected to draw on the first round and drew a big, blobby, misshappen oval with four circles underneath and a circle extending from the back. How was I supposed to derive that this was an animal?

But I did and I even managed to figure out it was a bear. Hubby nodded vigorously when I yelped, "Bear!" However, he kept stabbing at the picture with his pen, urging me on.

"Bear! I said bear! I said bear! It's a bear it's a bear it's a bear it's a bear, I said it's a bear it's a bear!"

Slowly, the sands in the hourglass trickled to an end.

Hubby turned to me and said calmly, "Grizzly bear." Then, inhaling deeply, "IF IT WASN'T A BEAR THE FIRST 23 TIMES YOU SAID IT, WHY DID YOU THINK IT WOULD BE A BEAR ON THE 24TH TIME?"

Now, if you watch "Family Guy," you will find an episode featuring Stewie and a Pictionary board horrifyingly and hilariously familiar. It's not the first time cartoon and Emil have emulated each other: there's also a scene out of "Screwed the Pooch" when Brian wails along with a baby in a restaurant that...well, never mind.

So, we lost that round. On the second round, I served as the artist. The word was "seaweed." I drew a sushi platter with chopsticks, intending to point out the nori. Okay, see what happens when you have a foodie try to draw? Emil's sister drew an eye and a weed. Needless to say, we lost.

Next round, Hubby drew. We lost, yet again.

"ANGRY!" he roared. "ANGRY!"

"Yes, I know you are!"

"THE ANSWER! THE ANSWER WAS ANGRY!"

"Well then you should have drawn an arrow and pointed it at yourself!"

So, we do not play Pictionary well as a team.

We hosted a group of friends for board games last Saturday and began the night with Pictionary. Of course, several of us spent fifteen minutes looking for the "grizzly bear" card to lay it on top as a gift for Hubby. He figured out he was being had. Hubby does not like Pictionary.

Now, sit him in front of a Monopoly board, and he's all smiles. That's because he's one of those Monopoly savants who knows statistics about which properties are the most profitable, and which squares people are more likely to land on. He's also sneaky: he'll offer people "sweetheart" deals which turn out to be useless. Once he's got the orange and red properties, he'll build hotels. It's usually over for most challengers in a few rounds. One secret to a successful marriage: don't own a Monopoly board.

The women went for several rounds of Cranium and far more laughter than was heard from the dining room, where the men had convened to build houses and hotels, and pass Go.

Game nights are casual so we made a platter of sandwiches: avocado slices paired with crisp bacon on grilled sourdough panini; chicken salad sandwiches with white truffle oil, pine nuts and golden raisins; and slices of seared flank steak with horseradish and gorgonzola crumbles in toasted baguettes. Desserts were cream puffs and chocolate dipped strawberries -- finger foods that are easy to pick up and eat in one bite, freeing participants to engage in the normal lunacy of acting out clues, drawing, answering trivial factoids and crushing would-be developers.

The Pale Fire Dinner

...When we first knew each other, Hubby ascribed to me far greater chess skills than I actually possessed. Maybe it was because I knew chess openings by name. Maybe it was because I managed to capture his queen the first time we played chess -- he claims it was dark and he couldn't see her. I think he wasn't paying attention because his agile mind was grappling with the incongruity of the wild, incomprehensible moves I was making with the smooth expertise I was projecting. He didn't know me well enough then to know that it was a bluff. So we talked about books while he advanced chess pieces, every move skillfully divesting me of any advantage.

He urged me to read "Pale Fire," Vladimir Nabokov's sly masterpiece. It's one of his favorite books. He's shared it with several acquaintances, and was insistent that I read it. He gave me a copy of the book -- his second present to me -- and though it was borrowed recently by proxy, it is now back in my possession. I thought it fitting to return the favor for his birthday this year, presenting him with a first edition of the book (another wallet-wounding weakness from which we suffer jointly).

I wanted to do something special for his birthday dinner; and his certain fondness for this book provided the inspiration.

The concept was tongue-in-cheek and earnest (and definitely silly), but cooking is never fun for me unless there’s something whimsical (or lunatic) involved. What came out wasn't a particularly cogent approach that would have definitively suggested "Pale Fire." But you can't make a meal based on a novel which features a foreward and sycophantic commentary to a fictional poet's final masterpiece, a shadowy assassin, and the possible delusions of a man who believes he is a deposed king. Nor can you make dishes based on a 999 line poem in heroic couplets in which the author repeatedly breaks proscenium by entering information about his life and then musing about what exists in the afterlife. I couldn't catch a break and have characters with names that would lend themselves to culinaria either: no "Plum" or "Lamb" or "Mallard." No, they were "Shade" and "Kinbote" and "Gradus."

The end result: five of the nine courses paid homage to the book’s title, alternating between delicately light or fiery flavors; two intermezzos nodded to Nabokov’s most famous oeuvre, and butterfly motifs were scattered throughout because Nabokov was a noted lepidopterist.

Seared Sea Scallops in "Butterflied" Puff Pastry with Black Truffle Emulsion

Tuna and Asparagus “Matchsticks” Spicy Cream Sauce and Red Tobiko on Fried Wonton

Asiago Chèvre Soufflé and Baby Greens with Sundried Tomato Romesco Vinaigrette

Asparagus Wasabi Flan with Lemon-Caper Hollandaise

Intermezzo: “Lolita Granita” (Pomegranate Juice and Vodka Granita)

“Blaze” Ravioli stuffed with Blue Crab in Citrus-Vanilla Reduction

Butterflied Rosemary Lamb Steaks with Boursin Risotto, Haricots Verts in Roasted Pepper Coulis

Intermezzo: Williams and Humbert Dry Sack Sherry

Dessert: “Feu Pâle” (White Chocolate Parfait on Honey Tuile & Molten Ancho Chile Chocolate Cake)

Remember, silly is the key word here. Despite last minute changes that weren't reflected in the printed menu, the entire meal was an absolutely lovely affair, made so much better by the presence of friends, 6 bottles of wine, and the return of a friend who had been deployed overseas.

I tell Hubby I might not always be able to say with precision how I feel about him. But I can cook exactly as I feel; and so food is my open love letter to him (and a comic punchline).

Hubby, as always, makes the better move: he says nothing and hugs me tightly.