This - THIS - is why I blog.

Honestly, my life - since being a small child - has consistently gone in a way that makes me shake my head. Or think, perhaps, I was born not with a birthmark, but a target.
As we were leaving the venue tonight The Client stopped us to thank us again for such a fantastic evening (We out-did ourselves *pat pat*) and gave us a little gift bag. It was "Just a little show of gratitude for the barrage of phone calls".

So we hopped in the van and gave it a going through. In the bag was 2 bottles of wine, a wheel of brie, some crackers, gift certificates to Starbuck's, and a big box of...

...chocolate covered cherries.

I threw my head back and laughed so hard I cried.

The Partner was confused.

I was amused.

I love my life.

I really really do.

Tricking during the holidays brings out a whole new kind of crazy. It's like when David Banner gets all kinds of ticked off and his eyes start to roll and his body starts to turn green and expand and rip the clothes right off his back. And then The Hulk starts running the streets all freaked out and throwing cars.
That's what my life feels like right about now. Only instead of the customers behaving like The Hulk, it's me.
First of all, nothing ticks me off more than when things aren't what they are supposed to be. I was running late this morning and in a mad dash through the store grabbed a Baker's Breakfast Cookie (which I normally love) for some sustinance to start my day. I was in the mood for something chocolate with my coffee so I opted for the Double Chocolate Chunk - so delicious.

But when I got to my car and ripped open the cookie and took a bite when... YUCK PTOOEY BLEH. It was Double Chocolate Chunk Cherry. I HATE chocolate and cherries together. Cherries belong in a Hostess Pie. They belong in a big bowl to be popped in your mouth for the Annual Whore Family Pit Spitting Contest. I DO NOT WANT THEM CHOPPED UP IN A CHOCOLATE COOKIE.

YUCK PTOOEY BLEH!
Seriously, I was so ticked about it I called The Husband just to bitch. He's got his entire support speech down. "Uh huh. I know. I know. I agree. I know. It will be ok. Ok? Ok."

Poor bastard.

But you know, I've become this cherry-raving lunatic (even more so than normal, I mean) because The Clients of this season have totally lost their freaking minds. Every last one of them. But the Brides - The Brides are THE worst!
First of all, while I find it very romantic that you want to get married by the twinkle of a Christmas Tree - have a damn clue about the reality of it all. The Holidays are packed with normal Holiday stuff - company parties, family parties, retail madness and an overall atmosphere of mayhem. So planning a wedding in the middle of all that is just crazy talk. It causes your family to freak out, it causes you to freak out, it causes your wedding coordinator to freak out, and because you're all freaked out you call your caterer 10 TIMES A DAY FOR A WEEK SOLID, and it causes your caterer to go ballistic over things like cherries in her chocolate chunk cookie. No I don't know where the DJ should plug his stuff in and no I don't know what the weather will be doing at the very moment you say "I do" and yes of course we cook the food (oh my God I can't believe you freaked out enough to ask me that) and yes of course we clean up the kitchen and yes for the love of God of course we wash the dishes.

I have beat my head against my steering whell more times than I can count this week.
So here's a tip - either get married in Aspen or get married in the spring.

JUST STOP CALLING ME.

May you all find peace and love this holiday season. May your hearts be filled with love and laughter, and may your blessings be plenty.

Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Happy Kwanzaa.

~The Food Whore & The Husband.

Tricking during the holidays brings out a whole new kind of crazy. It's like when David Banner gets all kinds of ticked off and his eyes start to roll and his body starts to turn green and expand and rip the clothes right off his back. And then The Hulk starts running the streets all freaked out and throwing cars.
That's what my life feels like right about now. Only instead of the customers behaving like The Hulk, it's me.
First of all, nothing ticks me off more than when things aren't what they are supposed to be. I was running late this morning and in a mad dash through the store grabbed a Baker's Breakfast Cookie (which I normally love) for some sustinance to start my day. I was in the mood for something chocolate with my coffee so I opted for the Double Chocolate Chunk - so delicious.

But when I got to my car and ripped open the cookie and took a bite when... YUCK PTOOEY BLEH. It was Double Chocolate Chunk Cherry. I HATE chocolate and cherries together. Cherries belong in a Hostess Pie. They belong in a big bowl to be popped in your mouth for the Annual Whore Family Pit Spitting Contest. I DO NOT WANT THEM CHOPPED UP IN A CHOCOLATE COOKIE.

YUCK PTOOEY BLEH!
Seriously, I was so ticked about it I called The Husband just to bitch. He's got his entire support speech down. "Uh huh. I know. I know. I agree. I know. It will be ok. Ok? Ok."

Poor bastard.

But you know, I've become this cherry-raving lunatic (even more so than normal, I mean) because The Clients of this season have totally lost their freaking minds. Every last one of them. But the Brides - The Brides are THE worst!
First of all, while I find it very romantic that you want to get married by the twinkle of a Christmas Tree - have a damn clue about the reality of it all. The Holidays are packed with normal Holiday stuff - company parties, family parties, retail madness and an overall atmosphere of mayhem. So planning a wedding in the middle of all that is just crazy talk. It causes your family to freak out, it causes you to freak out, it causes your wedding coordinator to freak out, and because you're all freaked out you call your caterer 10 TIMES A DAY FOR A WEEK SOLID, and it causes your caterer to go ballistic over things like cherries in her chocolate chunk cookie. No I don't know where the DJ should plug his stuff in and no I don't know what the weather will be doing at the very moment you say "I do" and yes of course we cook the food (oh my God I can't believe you freaked out enough to ask me that) and yes of course we clean up the kitchen and yes for the love of God of course we wash the dishes.

I have beat my head against my steering whell more times than I can count this week.
So here's a tip - either get married in Aspen or get married in the spring.

JUST STOP CALLING ME.

Done.
Finally.

The Marathon 15-Day Tricking Event is finally over.

Well, until next week.

But for now I can rest - well - after I pick up my last two gifts at the store.

That's right - I am reduced to shopping on Christmas Eve with the rest of the crazies.

So, Bridezilla.
As we left The Trick that night, I leaned forward over the steering wheel of the van and let out a big sigh. The Partner was hunched over in the passenger seat, and I could see Our Employees in the other van doing the same.

It was 1:00 a.m. and we all smelled of fish and chicken and food - and the smell of exhaustion and angst.

As I said, there were 332 people there by our plate count. Not 450. Oh, but we had enough food for 450. There was food everywhere. And while we had to make that much food - because that's what they ordered. I was angry to think of all the extra work we had to do based on the dramatic thinking of a white-dressed twit.

The tension of the night was palpable - it wasn't just us. The Parents of Bridezilla, The Parents of The Groom, the guests, even. It wasn't your average night where people are laughing and celebrating.

Everyone had been privy to the monster that Bridezilla had become, and everyone was tired of her.

The Guests were very complimentary and kind, but they all had this vibe going like they just wanted to eat and get the Hell out of there.
Much like us - we just wanted to let them eat and get the Hell out of there.
The best part of the night came during the program. The MC made some announcements and funny anecdotes, and then made the announcement that it was time for The Money Dance. He wanted everyone to open their wallets to wave the cash for the chance to dance with the Bridezilla and Groom. All monies were so they could go off and have a fabulous honeymoon.

The Partner and I stood in the back to watch it all go down. The music started, and the MC started his bidding.

And the room was silent.

Not one person waved so much as a dollar bill in the air. Instead most sat with arms folded, including the parents of the Bridal couple.

Finally someone held up a dollar and the dance got started - but that was it.

One crisp dollar was given, and the MC saved face by having the DJ crank the music and getting everyone on the dance floor.

We made our way back to the make-shift kitchen and began to laugh. And the laughter just rolled and rolled and rolled until we had tears. Our entire Staff laughed until we all were holding our stomachs in pain.

Our Lead Server straighted her apron and said, "Serves the bitch right." This from a person who never says anything angry or off-color - which then made us all roll with more laughter.

The laughter was very therapeutic. It was the perfect capper for the night. But then the reality of all the work left set in and we went back to hauling and washing and loading.

And see, there's another parallel issue that had been happening during this entire event.
We will call her Cheap Cheryl - I had submitted a quote to her and she tracked me down on my cell phone right in the middle of our staging for Bridezilla's reception. She was in hysterics over the price - it was just so much more than she thought and there was no way it would fit her budget and the only reason she contacted us was because she heard we were so fabulous - and more importantly - fair.

I had just put down a tote full of china when the call came in - and I wanted to come unglued. But I didn't. I simply said, "The price you were given was fair. And your comments are offensive, but pretty on par with my week. We clearly are not able to meet your needs, so please feel free to call another Caterer. I am in the middle of another Trick, so I have to go now. Have a nice day."

And then I threw my phone in the van so hard that the battery dislodged and flipped into a pile of butter. Served me right.

So during the service portion of Bridezilla's affair, I ran across Cheap Cheryl at table 32. She sat there with her head down, and her face got red as she saw me trying to manage a stack of dirty plates.

Stupid Cow.

So later Bridezilla's mother made her way to the kitchen to say how wonderful everything was, and to say thank you for putting up with all the crap. And she got our her checkbook and wrote me a check for the bill - and paid for all 450 guests. As she closed her checkbook she said, "Again, I am so sorry. It's my fault, too. I raised the little bitch. And somewhere down the road, she will be paying me back for all 118 guests who didn't show up. Life is about to get really hard and really gritty for her."

How sad to have what should be a fabulous night for all to be filled with such anger an animosity.

But that's what happens to some people.

And we seem to cater for them all.

Really? Does Bridezilla even begin to say it all?

What about Bride of Chucky?

Bride of the Cript Keeper?

Bride of The Dark Lord of The Underbelly?

Bride of Satan's Evil Younger Brother?

Bride Of The Spawn of Hell?

It's the day before.

Food is delivered.

It is being prepped.

Errands have been run.

Staging has been planned.

Venue has been toured with items put in place.

And BridemMtherFuckingZilla (Sorry, mom. And, you know, others offeded with the cursing) calls in hysterics to add another 50 guests to the list.

We're at 450, now.

In three days we've added 100 guests.

And while you may say, "Come on, Foodwhore? What's the big deal? It's only 100 people? Mellow Out...."
If you could see this menu...
Added to the list of other issues, this is the trick that could ultimately lead to the complete unravelling of the tiny shard of tangible sanity I have left.
If I can make it through this night without shoving her face first into the 27 tiers of triple chocolate decadence cake, it will be the miracle to which all other miracles are compared to.

"Yes, finding $500,000 in your attic is a huge miracle. But it's still not as miraculous as the December of 2005 when The Food Whore kept her fingernail biten hands from wrapping themselves around BrideMotherFuckingZilla's neck. Now THAT's a miracle."

And here we go again...

Ok. It's a special day.

Ok. It's one of the most important days in your life.

Ok. You want the night to be magical.

Ok. You deserve to be special for the day.

Not Ok. Your incessant whining.

Not Ok. Your insistence upon calling me at home so you can bounce ideas off me at 11:00 at night.
Not Ok. The way you speak to your mother like she's an insignificant speck. She's footing the bill. And she's too gracious to give you a smack-down in front of people.

Not Ok. The incessent whining. Honestly, it's so annoying.

Not Ok. The way you interrupted me when you ran into me while I was out Christmas shopping with a friend.

Not Ok. Insisting to me that your mother doesn't know anything when she says that 350 will be attending the wedding. You say you invited 400 people and every single person will show up because they are so excited to see you get married. I've got news for you - you're dreaming.

Not Ok. Adding an entire course to the menu because you are certain people need more choice than the 14 things already offered.

Not Ok. Your incessant whining.

Seriously, I mean it this time.

The Trick took place in a private home - a holiday office party. The home was beautiful, and The Hostess could not have been more kind.

She apologized profusely for all the changes. "The Good Doctor could not make up his mind", she said. The Partner did all the dealing so I was not aware who The Good Doctor was.

So later I was standing over the sink when a male voice spoke behind me. "Well well well. I call. I write. You never come see me." I wasn't sure to whom this man was speaking, so I looked into the window to see if I could catch a reflection.

Damn.

This Good Doctor is My Dentist.

I turned around to say hello, pursing my lips as not to show my teeth. I don't have bad teeth. I have fabulous teeth, actually. But I didn't want that familiar dental scrutiny he is so famous for.
Seeing him took me back a little. He's a handsome man, something I had not noticed considering my time is mostly spent trying to swallow my spit while looking up his nose.

"What has it been - a year? 18 months?", he asked with raised eyebrow.

"I am not sure, really. I am very busy. Time flies, you know."
It's not that I don't take dental health seriously, I do. I am an obsessive brusher and flosser. I even carry those little plastic dental pics in my purse. So I do care.

It's just that I hate the dentist. Not just my dentist. Though I do carry a particular un-fondness for him. But I hate going to the dentist. I do believe there is a class in dental school on how to torture patients with a small mirror and sharp hook like tool. Not to mention that class at Dental Hygiene school where they teach the students how to strangulate teeth with floss and make everyone writhe in pain while nearly choking on their tongue. Not to mention the dental tool makers who make every drill motor sound like the theme song to every Halloween movie ever made.

And before any of you dentists or dental hygienists send me hate mail - let me say in advance that a good friend of mine is a dentist. And while I do enjoy his company, I am carefully not to be in a reclined position in his presence for fear he will subconsciously ram a latex-laden finger into my mouth.

I have a long and sordid history with My Dentist. We go way back. Way back to fillings. Way back to pulling of teeth. Way back to braces. Twice. Way back to the extraction of wisdom teeth. And while he did not actually put the braces on my teeth or do the extracting of the wisdom teeth - he recommended both and has a major case of guilt by association. And while I should show him gratitude for my beautiful teeth, I can't seem to muster any up.

He is the Devil.

"Every six months. You should be coming to see me every six months. Was it something I said?" He asked, head tilted.

"You stopped giving toys."
"I what?"
"You stopped giving toys."
"We still give toys to kids."
"Right. But I am not a kid. That's discrimination. We should all get toys."
"What toys would you suggest I give adults?"
"The same as kids."
"So... you would want a Yo-Yo?"
"You're giving Yo-Yo's, now?"
"Yep. We're giving Yo-Yo's now."
"I would be all over the Yo-Yo."
"Fine. The next time you come and see me, you will get a Yo-Yo."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"I want a red one."
"Fine."
"It's a deal."
"Good. Call us on Monday to make an appointment."
"Fine."
"I will look forward to seeing you."

"Oh. By the way, tonight's meal is going to cost you about as much as a couple of root canals. And we don't give away any Yo-Yo's."

He laughed.

But I was totally not joking.

Who calls their caterer the DAY OF the event and says, "Oh... um... yeah. Just go ahead and throw in a couple appetizers. Maybe a nice shrimp cocktail and some stuffed mushrooms or perhaps a cheese torte and some crostini. Mmmkay? Thanks!"
Sure. No problem. I mean, considering this gig went from just desserts to just appetizers, to a two-meat meal, to a two-meat meal with dessert, to a two-meat meal with dessert and appetizers all in one damn week - WHY THE HELL NOT.

If I called the doctor do you think he would change these pills from anti-biotics to anti-psychotics?

'Cause I'm gonna need them...

Every where you look this time of year you are flooded with the sights and smells of holiday food. The Traditions of Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, and all other celebrations this time of year each come with their own special touch. Every country has their traditions, and even within the United States each corner of the country has a holiday food that makes them unique.

The Great Aunt on The Father's Side was a portly and feisty woman direct from the Old Country.

The "Old Country", in this case, being Holland.

Along with a few personal belongings, she brought with her the treasure of good old Dutch recipes. My favorite being the OlieBollen - or "Dutch Fritters".

I can still see her beating that dough in her old metal bucket - holding it between her knees - while adding currants and apples, and mixing the dough until it had the right hand. She used to say, "Da dough has to have da rrrright hant, it has to be da rrright feel. You vill know da rrrright feel." I was too young to understand what she meant. All I knew was that the time she let that dough rise until the time she dropped mound fulls in the hot oil was the longest span of time known to man.
I would do my part by getting brown paper sacks out of her dry pantry, and as soon as the fritters were done frying she would drop them in that bag and it was my job to dump in the sugar and give the entire thing a good shaking. And when every oliebollen was covered in sugar, it was time to eat.
And eat we did. She would pour each of us a hot cup of tea, careful to add lots of milk and sugar, and we would eat those oliebollen until we couldn't take another bite. And she would delight in watching us stuff ourselves, and laugh as we would moan with the pain of being so full.

Her recipes have been handed down, and each year I attempt to make a batch to match the taste and textures of hers. But each year I fall short. Everyone who attempts to make them has the same results. Her hands made the best. It's that simple.

I miss her.

I knew I was in trouble when I opened my mouth to say, "Ahhhh", and the doctor said, "Oh Holy Christ."
What came next was a thorough examination, a prescription, and a 10 minute lecture on sleep, drinking lots of fluids - and absolute rest.

As I sat there in my flannel pajama bottoms, sweatshirt, scarf, fuzzy boots and unwashed hair, I chuckled - the first time I had done that in days. "Rest?"
He wasn't amused.

Honestly I wasn't either, but what are you gonna do?
I think I did go home and rest that day, but since then it's been a non-stop whirl of activity.

And today, today I am tired.

And I don't know if the tired is coming from the fact that I haven't had any time to rest, or if a party we're tricking Thursday night decided TODAY that instead of appetizers they want prime rib and all the trimmings.
Or if perhaps it's the Wedding on the weekend who jumped from 225 guests to 340.
Or perhaps it's just that I am not drinking enough lemon drops for endurance.
Yeah. That must be it.

I've been living off Cepacol losenges and chicken broth since Saturday morning. I've lost a total of 5 pounds, and total respect for the scheduler at my dr.'s office.

Thanksfully, I am feeling markedly better, and have so much to catch up on.

But I want to take a minute to get a very important question answered:

Who's the person who told Tyra Banks it was ok to speak, let alone have a damn talk show?

Seriously, Tyra. You are a beautiful woman. Gorgeous. But as soon as your mouth opens...oh, dear.

Be pretty, Tyra.

Just please be quiet.