So it's Spring and the weather is glorious. Gone are the short, dark and dreary days of Winter. Here are the long and glorious days of spring with all the flowers blooming and cool breezes blowing at night.

It's also the time of year when I bring out my fabulous collection of flip-flops.

Ok and let's just discuss this for a minute. In my day, a flip-flop was a thong. We wore thongs to the pool. We wore thongs to the store. We wore thongs everywhere. And when you said, "I got a new pair of thongs", people didn't snicker at the idea that you were talking about underwear.

I am pretty ticked off at this generation for taking a word of my youth and turning it into a description of a piece of butt floss. I want my thongs back, damnit.

Anyway.

It's flip-flop (I am totally going to bring back the word Thong) weather and everywhere you go you hear that familiar "snap snap snap" of shoe against heel.

I was sporting my lime green pair yesterday - a pair I told myself was time to replace soon, as the little part that goes between my toes was starting to come apart.

So I cruised into the - you guessed it - grocery store. (I am starting to think of it as my version of Cheers - the place where everyone knows my name.) And I loaded up on a few essentials including Marmalade and a nice 6-pack of Heinekin for The Husband.

I paid for my items, carried on small banter with the bagger-boy, and was on my merry way, bags in hand. And I'm flip-flopping my way to the car when I stepped on something sticky which caused my flip-flop to get stuck, and as I was about to step up the little between my toe thingy gave way and I lost my footing.

And I tripped.

And I fell.

Right there in the damn parking lot.

Since I have very little dignity left, I wasn't so much worried about anyone seeing me as I was the condition of my groceries. The beer - thank God - made it. The marmalade did not fare so well.

Fortunately, I didn't get eggs.

Damn thongs.

Quite often when we are hired The Client leaves the menu to our discrection, knowing whatever we pick will be wonderful. To have someone have that kind of confidence in you is awesome and very liberating.

However, in this business you really have to know your audience. Because every once and a while you gan get a group of people who sort of "miss" what you're trying to do, food wise.

I thought I had a pretty clear picture of the type of crowd we would be serving Friday night. I have served a few of them before and assumed everyone was on the same level.

Why after all these years I haven't learned to stop assuming is beyond me. You know that statement? 'When you assume you make an ASS out of U and Me?' Yeah, well. When I assume, I end up making an ass of ME and ME.

Anyway.

The Group Hostess of this particular evening (not to be confused with the lady of the house as previously discussed) gave us carte blanch in planning the menu. All she asked was that we keep the menu to finger foods and keep the items fairly straightforward. And we did. Or at least I thought we did.

I explained to the hostess what each item on the menu was and when she announced to her guests that it was time to eat, I clearly heard her describe each and every item in exactly the way I explained it to her. We also had menu place cards by each item as to further alleviate any confusion. Although even without the menu cards, you just couldn't miss what the food was.

One menu item in particular was the caramelized salmon bites in endive leaves. The endive provided a way to eat the salmon with your hands and it also added another texture and flavor element to the dish. And I mean, everyone knows the endive, right?

It displayed beautifully.

So I was going about my business in the kitchen when through the window I could hear people on the deck. A man and wife were speaking and the man said, "You took the lettuce, too?"

"No - and no. You know me, I am hungry, so I just eat."

Loud Sigh.

"Is the lettuce good? Endive - you know what I mean."

"Oh. I just thought it was a garnish."

As I peaked out the window I scanned the crowd to see if this man was the only one who felt the same way. I saw roughly 9 people eating the salmon still cradled in the endive, with the others akwardly eating the salmon just with their fingers. So I made my way to the food table and there on the platter was approximately 27 empty endive leaves. They looked like lonely fishing boats in a crowded harbor.

I shook my head and chuckled.

The Partner came out and her smile dropped to a look of astonishment. "Don't people like endive?" she asked?

Just then The Group Hostess came in to get another plate. "How many descriptions of this food - which is fabulous by the way - do people need? I just came in here to get a plate full of those empty endive leaves. Apparently someone spread the rumor that they were garnish, only. And when told differently, people who didn't take it now want it. People are idiots!"

And without prompting or planning, The Partner and I applied in unison, "Welcome to our world."

Welcome to our world.

So I didn't steal any guest soaps. I couldn't have if I wanted to, anyway. Gorgeous home - but only one tiny shard of soap was left in the guest bathroom. I am pretty certain that only about 3 washings could have taken place before people had to resort to scraping the residue out of the bottom of the dish.

No - what I took from there was far more valuable - I got to see drunk people make fools of themselves.

One of the fun (Or profoundly sad - however you want to look at it) dynamics of being The Food Whore is when you get invited into people's homes to turn a trick. You're closer to your guests and have more one-on-one contact with people and you get to see and hear what normally takes place on the other side of a grand ballroom.

In this case, it took place right at the prep island we were working at.

And the thing about liquor when consumed in large quantities is it either makes the funny person more funny, or it makes the miserable person more miserable. Rarely does it make a person quiet and reserved. (Unless your my Aunt Dena who can't finish a glass of wine without the snoring setting in.)

And on this particular night, the liquor was like a truth serum for the miserable and we were privy to the many woes of couples A, B, and C. We learned more than we wanted to know, actually, and I couldn't help but feel profound sadness for those who needed to find solace and comfort with a caterer who was trying to serve up the glazed salmon bites.

One of those people was The Hostess who so detests me. And while I do have a deeper understanding of the type of misery she inflicts upon herself, I still can't seem to muster the sympathy she so demands. And because I am a mature woman who has better things to do with her time than dwell on the stupid, I will never bring up to The Hostess the things she said, again.

Unless I am having a really bad day.

So I have a trick tonight.

And I am dreading it.

It's a small function of about 50 people - drinks and appetizers only. That part I love. Easy stuff.

And it was to be hosted at a hall of some kind but was changed to a private home.

And it just so happens the lady of said private home detests me. I know her socially and would be honest enough to tell you if her hatred of me was warranted.

But it's not.

She's got some serious dellusions of grandeur and goes out of her way to punish me for just being me.

But it's a job and I have to be a professional and put on my game face.

But I am totally going to steal her guest soaps.

Ok so I was in the grocery store.

And yes, I know you're all thinking - it's not humanly possible (or normal) for a person to spend that much time in the grocery store.

But it is.

They all know me by name and I have actually considered having my mail forwarded there.

Anyway.

So I am in the navata del formaggio.

Did you all catch that? I said navata del formaggio.

That's right people, I am learning to speak Italian. And for those of you who aren't, that statements means - Cheese Aisle.

Anyway, I'm in the cheese aisle and I run into The Crying Lady.

To give you a little back story, The Crying Lady is a wonderful woman. She's kind and generous and has a wonderful spirit. I have known her socially for nearly 10 years and 6 years ago we Tricked her daughter's wedding.

The thing is, she cries all the damn time.

And it's not because she's particularly sad, it's just that she is so overcome with emotion that she has no other option but to cry.

So we greeted one another and then she started in.

"Do you realize it's been exactly 6 years since you catered Kitty's wedding?"

"You know we still talk about that. *sniff* It was so special that you would do that for us."

At this point her eyes welled up with tears.

"Well, it was quite a fun experience. It was one of the first Tricks we ever did."

And let me tell you, it wasn't fun, it was a nightmare. 125 people RSVP'd - 207 showed up. 10-15 people can be fudged. But 82 extra is a freaking nightmare. At one point I found The Partner in the back hall lying in the fetal position, which pretty much defeated my plan to stick my head in the oven. Someone had to be the sane one.

But the guest were none the wiser. Everyone got something to eat. Everyone was gracious enough to bring the dirty dishes to the kitchen to be washed - since there weren't enough plates. And everyone raved about the food. But It nearly made us give up the idea that we could do this for a living. (It was also the catalyst for my great love of vodka)

"It was just so special...*sniff*... you worked so hard and you never complained with all the extra people. And... "

And this is the part where she broke into an all out bawl. A cartoon depiction of the moment would have shown buckets of tears falling from her face and flooding the navata del formaggio.

I have known her long enough to know that instead of trying to comfort her, you simply smile, nod, and give her a pat on the shoulder. She gets through it.

But other people don't know that and they started to stare. In face, the lady standing behind her must have thought I said something horrible because she glared at me so intensely as she walked by that I gulped a little bit.

But at least my shoulder pad didn't fall out.

It's been a whirlwind few days.

Week.

Whatever.

After getting dumped by the evil tightwad as whined about in the previous post, I went out and took on some retail therapy.

Nothing makes a girl feel better than a new pair of shoes.

And earrings.

And pants.

And a couple of skirts.

And a sweater.

And a mandolin slicer.

And a couple of paring knives.

Oh, and a purse.

So I was at the grocery store and I was wearing my new funky cardigan sweater. Now, the sweater has these little shoulder pads. Not the Sue Ellen Ewing kind of shoulder pads from the 80's, but instaed these little flesh colored ones held in place by a couple of simple stiches. (I don't make the clothes, people, I just wear them)

Anyway.

So I'm in he grocery store and I'm back by the meat counter trying to talk my butcher into giving me a good deal on the prime rib. Another gentleman was looking over the rib steaks and we were making small talk. Well, as I leaned over the meat counter, one of the shoulder pads from my sweater fell into the display case. And the thing is - that damn shoulder pad looked a lot like one of those bra inserts they sell to enhance the cleavage.

Both The Butcher and The Gentleman locked eyes. And then they both looked at me.

I sighed heavily and dropped my head. "Oh this is perfect.", I said.

Neither man said a word.

I picked up the shoulder pad and placed it back where it came from, praying it would stay until I could get out of the store. In doing so, both men gave out a little sigh. The Gentleman grabbed a couple of rib steaks and smiled.

And either out of sympathy or a total fascination with my sweater, I got a really good price on the prime rib.

For the last month and a half I have been working diligently with a client. Meetings, faxes, phone calls. Menu changes. Ideas.

On and on and on and on.

She was so demanding. But that's ok. That's what I make the big bucks for. (Insert sarcastic eye roll, here)

The biggest issue was that she would panic if I did not return her calls within 3 hours.

It's been exhausting.

So I haven't heard from her in a week and we're coming up on crunch time. I called her and left a message.

I came home to a return message.

"Hi. Oh. Yeah. Gosh, I guess I dropped the ball and didn't call you. We, um. Yeah. We've decided to go in a different direction. We're just going to cut costs and do it ourselves. You streamlined our menu so well that were just sure we can do it - it will be a piece of cake."

Is it wrong that I hope she trips and goes face down on a piece of cake?

I have never been fond of the types of foods that are cooked until they wind up a pile of what looks like regurgitated grass clippings.

Things like spinach, greens (mustard, collard, etc.), or the asparagus The Great Aunt insisted upon boiling on High until the tiny spears emuslfied into what looked like a Gerber product. (We were always sure to arrive early for holidays so we could stand watch over the stove and turn off the burners before such an offense took place.)

I like food fresh tasting - with a bite. I love fresh spinach in a salad or tossed every so quickly in oil and garlic. Things that are mushy and stringy make me gag - in fact I just did a tiny gag as I typed the words, "Mushy and stringy". (And just now as I typed them again... *gag*)

So, The Husband is from The South. And as you all know, most people in The South eat quite differently from those of us reared in the Northwest.

Especially when it comes to things like this:

Collard Greens.

It was my first trip back to meet The Husband's family and by the time the plane landed, my nerves were shot. I was confident they would love me, because let's be honest - who doesn't? (No raising of hands, please.) But I was concerned about them liking me. I'm not your average girl and to know me is to love me. But this was The Big Show - The Husband's Family.

In honor of our arrival, The Husband's Mother had cooked a huge meal of The Husband's favorite foods, right down to the steaming pot of collard greens. And she invited everyone over to meet - The New Woman.

As I was shaking hands and being greeted with hugs I could see the food being loaded on to large platters and being put on the table. It all looked and smelled so wonderful but small beads of sweat started to form on my brow at the stress of those greens. I blamed it on the oppressive humidity.

Being the guests of honor, we were made to go first in the food line. "Now be sure to take a little big of everything!", came the command from The Husband's Mother. And was looking directly into my eyes as she said it. I laughed nervously as I took a spoonful and tried not to gag at the stringy pieces.

Soon everyone had their plates full and we were sitting all over the house talking and laughing and enjoying the wonderful food. The Husband could see me avoiding the greens and whispered to just push them on to his plate when no one was looking. And just as I was getting ready to do so, The Husband's Mother said, "You haven't touched your greens. Don't you like greens?", and all mouths went shut and all eyes were on me.

The Husband spoke up in my defense, "Of course she does, Mom. But I wanted more and didn't want to seem like a pig so I told her to give me hers." His mother smiled and said, Now don't be silly. You are home, you are supposed to be a pig here!", and with that she scooped up his plate to get him more greens. And there I sat, all eyes in the room on me, digging my heel so deep into The Husband's foot I think he still has a scar.

So I ate the greens and prayed to God on each and every bite that I would not gag. And they had great flavor. But that texture...*gag*

So a few weeks after we were married I set out to make The Husband a nice Southern meal, including greens prepared just like The Now Mother In Law taught me. (Scored major points by asking her, by the way) Only when we sat down to eat, he barely touched them. "I know they aren't your mothers. But are they that bad?", I asked. "No, they are fine.", he said. "To be honest, I don't like greens. Never did. I just ate them to make my mother happy." Seeing the look on my face, he promptly piled his plate high with greens and raved about how fabulous they were.

Smart man, The Husband.

The thing is, greens are really good for you. They are full of antioxidants. But they are also tough and bitter in their raw form. And I made it my mission in life to turn them into an edible product without stewing them into a mushy and stringy mass. (Again with the gagging)

And this is one of the things I came up with.

You know, there was a day when things seemed more simple. Wait, is that a grammar issue? More simple - can I use those words together? Eh. Whatever.

Anyway, when you ordered coffee, no one asked you what kind. A cheeseburger came with the standard yellow cheddar. Or even GOD FORBID - American. French fries were plain spuds. Bread was white or wheat - marbled rye if you were lucky. The previously talked about mushroom selection was pretty basic. Even things like toilet paper came in only 1 ply or 2. (Unlike today's choices which range from embossed to 500 thread count Egyptian Cotton)

But now we're inundated with 25 choices of everything. Nothing is simple, it seems. Or even more simple.

Tonight after a drop I went to my friend's house where we sat outside by her new fancy fire pit and roasted marshmallows over the open flame. I brought things for S'Mores and in doing so grabbed your basic graham cracker and the only chocolate needed - a plain Hershey bar. There was no thought of Valrhona or Sharffen-Berger. Though I must admit Godiva did cross my mind.

But I stuck with the simple choice - the only choice, really.

Sometimes I think about the days of my youth when my cash strapped parents made feasts out of hamburger and russet potatoes. Food was simple, and it was grand. There was no thought of eating fiddle head ferns unless you were playing hide-and-go-seek with your sister and the older neighborhood kids and they conveniently "forgot" to seek you and you grew desperate and hungry and were too stupid to say, 'Hey, over here, I'm here, helloooooo!', so you started eyeing the odd plant to see if it was snack worthy. (Still bitter about those days...)

Food is now this entire culture in and of itself. Which is great, don't get me wrong. I am obsessed with it all. But there are moments like tonight when a gooey marshmallow and a basic Hershey's chocolate bar rock my world.

Although right now, if someone were to offer me a plump chicken breast stuffed with proscuitto and smokey fontina cheese smothered in a crimini and heavy cream sauce, I wouldn't say no.

I guess I'm just simply complicated.

Recieving voicemail from Potential Client wanting an "inexpensive but fabulous holiday party on December 21st." - Interesting.

Receiving - count them - 8 voicemails the next day from Potential Client who's "in a panic that I have not been quick to return the call. "Because after all, December 21st. will be here before you know it". - Annoying.

Dealing with Potential Client on the phone and trying to get Potential Client to understand that even though she wants salmon and chicken for under $15 per person, no such menu exists. - Exhasperating.

Going over calendar while on phone with client and realizing you are already double booked for that day and will be unable to help her - Priceless.

So I am in the grocery store, minding my own business, when around the corner came Nosy Nancy.

"Great", I thought. Just what I need. The Spanish Inquisition while I am picking out toilet paper.

Nosy Nancy is a sweet woman by nature. But that side of her that warrants the moniker "Nosy" is oh so unnatractive. I've tricked for her a few times and invariably I run into her and have to endure her telling whomever she is with what we cooked for her, how we did it, and how much we charged for it. Or she will tell me some story about something or someone she heard about and usually has her information all wrong.

God love her.

So I am grabbing a bottle of fennel seed when I hear, "Oh, you have broccoli. What will you make with that?"

"Um, probably broccoli." I smile and laugh.

"Oh. I thought it would be some fancy schmancy dish."

"No, I just put it in my cart for a garnish." And I threw my head back and laughed.

But she didn't get it.

No one ever does.

Growing up, I wasn't exposed to a broad range of mushrooms. The white Buttom Mushroom was pretty status quo for most dinner tables back then and I usually picked them out of whatever dish The Mother found the need to put them in. Except I did like them sauteed in butter and garlic with a dash or three of Worcheshire (please don't ask me to spell that) sauce and served over a nice juicy steak.

Mmmmmm....

And what brought this subject to mind today was my visit over to Food Muse where I found a picture of the morell mushroom.

Odd looking creature, don't you think?

Anyway.

So I was around the age of 18 when friends and I found ourselves on the streets of Vancouver, BC, searching for a place to eat. It was late and being our first time in the city we had no idea of where to go, so we went to the first Chinese restaurant we stumbled upon. A restaurant we later found we had no business being in.

The white linens and our casual dress should have been our first red flag but we were greeted with open arms and led to a beautiful table right by the front window. Upon opening the menu I realized that this wasn't the traditional Cantonese style I was used to where you could order "B for 4" and be pretty assured that you would be gettting the bbq pork and egg flower soup. This menu was a la carte with no prices. (Red Flag)

The waiter spoke about 3 words of English and we spoke no words of Chinese so communication was done with a lot of arm waiving and pointing. We finally ended up coming to an agreement that when he said, "I pick", we simply smiled, nodded and said, "Thank You." (Red Flag) I am pretty sure he went to the kitchen and said, "We've got four American suckers at table 5 - let's bring out the big guns!"

The first course was brought out on silver platters and four waiters attentively served up our plates, filled our wine glasses, brought out fresh water glasses, and put warm napkins on our laps. (Red Flag) We were all giddy with the service and spent a good part of that time laughing at our good fortune. We were also really giddy about being served without being carded as the drinking age was 19.

By the time that was done, out came the soup course in large silver toureens (red flag) and again the 4 waiters came out to ladel our bowls full. And again the new water glass and again with the fresh warm napkin.

And then out came the main course. There were 5 large silver platters teeming with fabulous food; Peking duck, shrimp in a spicy chile sauce, moo goo gai pan, a beef and vegetable number, and delicious fried rice. And again the 4 waiters served up each of our plates with the fresh water glass and fresh warm napkin. And every time we would so much as take a bite, there was one of our personal waiters waiting to add more food to our plate.

We were having the time of our lives.

But then I was looking at my mound of beef and vegetable dish when I
spotted the morell, only I didn't know it was a morell. I tried to discreetly poke at it with my fork - the fork I had to embarassingly ask for from the one waiter who spoke like five words of English. My friends noticed my poking and asked what I was doing. When I showed them the mushroom they all crinkled up their noses in the same confusion I was feeling.

We all agreed we had never seen one before and we all agreed we didn't know what the heck it was. The only thing I could think of that was remotely like it was those "poofy" mushroom things I used to find in my yard. You know, the things you would step on and that little cloud of smoke would poof out the top. And I was convinced that's what it was and was freaked out that the chef would try to poison us in that way. (I was 18, remember. Not the brightest bulb in the pack)

So I pushed it aside and all of my friends frantically did the same on their own plates. And then we dug through the platter on the table fishing out any others we may find.

One of the waiters came over and saw what we were doing and was quite concerned. "You no like?"

"No. We no like", I said. And I had that look on my face as if to say, 'We know what you're up to, buddy. And we're not eating these things'.

We were all convinced that they were, in fact, "pooofy" mushroom things and even though we were young, we weren't stupid.

Yeah. We were walking geniuses. Which is why we paid $350 for dinner and didn't realize that one of the menus did actually have prices on it. But it was the menu being held by Susie and she said the numbers were in Chinese. (Yeah, I know)

It's definitely one of those "You had to be there" moments, but it will forever make me chuckle when I see the morell.

Ok so when you're at a function where the food is served buffet style, please take note (and take to heart) the following tip.

WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE GIVEN THE GO AHEAD BEFORE GETTING IN LINE AND SHOVELING FOOD ON TO YOUR PLATE LIKE SCHOOL KIDS IN THE CAFETERIA ON PIZZA DAY.

Because chances are, even though you may think you are so hungry and so desperate for a shrimp roll that you shove your way in front of the caterer and start loading up your plate on the food that is out there, the reality is that all of the food might not actually be on the table. And when the caterer is trying - in vain - to bring the rest of the food out and set up a pretty display, you will ruin it. And your rudness and utter disregard for any kind of class and decorum will cause The Caterer great distress and you will become fodder in the kitchen. (And, you know, on someone's website)

If you're so hungry, get a snack on the way to the venue. Pop a few Triscuits in your pocket or grab some McNuggets. Eat a sugar cube for all I care.

But for the love of God have enough sense to wait for an annoucement from the Host or Hostess or at least wait until you see The Caterer give said Host or Hostess a nod signaling the all clear.

Thank you.

And good night.