It was 2nd grade, and I was the proud owner of a Raggedy Ann costume.
I was so excited. I mean - Raggedy Ann. The coolest costume to ever be placed on the shelves at Sprouse Rietz.

Yes, it was plastic and tied in the back. And yes the mask had teeny tiny holes for eyes and nose, but I was Raggedy Ann, damnit. And I thought I had the coolest costume on the block.

Until the temperature dropped. And then like every other dejected kid in my neighborhood I was just another meaningless plastic face over a big ass winter coat The Mother forced me to wear. There was nothing so depressing as having to bundle up.

It was one thing to see little Jimmy from down the block with his flannels under his Superman costume, but it was another to be hidden under a bundle of wool that would end up making me sweat behind that plastic mask. And then all the sweat would puddle and make the mask kind of slippery so it would be askew. And then because of all the adjusting the plastic band would break, forcing me to hold the mask in place while shouting at the door, "Trick or Treet!".

Ahhhh the good old days.

I hope your day is filled with more treats than tricks, although I am pretty partial to the Tricks, myself.

Happy Halloween!

I had the chance to sit down with some friends over coffee to discuss life, how busy we all are, and how excited we are that The Most Adored Food Holiday In All The Land is fast approaching.

(That would be Thanksgiving, people.)

So my friend Rita was sharing how her cousin has gotten into the catering business, and was wondering if she could give her cousin my phone number for advice. I could tell Rita had a sense of sarcasm about her, and I asked her what was up.

"Well, my cousin says she has a brilliant plan to be the best, most consumer friendly caterer ever."

"Oh do tell.", I responded.

"Well, her plan is to charge $2.00 per person, plus the cost of food."

"Wait... this is her plan. She will pass on the cost of food to the customer and charge them $2.00 per person for their time. She says that will be all profit for her because she won't need to pay taxes if they pay her cost. And she won't need to pay for her help."

At this point I started to giggle.

"OK humor me - why won't she need to pay for her help?"

"Well because she has so many great friends and she knows they will love to help her for nothing - because catering is so much fun! I mean - it's not hard work, making food for people. And how hard is it to wash a dish? Her friends will be thrilled to help her because it will be so much fun."

Rita could barely finish the last sentence before she fell into a fit of giggles. All of us at the table belly laughed until we cried.

Ahhhh Rita's cousin. Godspeed, sweetie.

Coming off another insanely busy week has left me looking back in wonder at all of the food we've served over the last 7 days, and all of the mishaps along the way.

Much to blog after all this time away.

But the thing that stands out the most is The Birthday Client. She threw herself a lovely little 90th birthday party for those near and dear. And even those near and not so dear.

In the middle of the bash she came into the kitchen to express her dislike of the sweet old lady who just arrived in the wheelchair. "She looks nice enough. But trust me, she's always been a real hag."

A shocking statement from a seemingly sweet old lady. And yet some how, excusable and kind of funny. Her Daughter shook her head, "My mother is such an old bitty sometimes..."

The Partner looked to me and said, "That's totally going to be you one day. Seemingly old and sweet, but a total opinionated bitch."

Nice.

This is why... *sigh*

I ran to The Grocery Store on my way home today. And in all of my folly I couldn't help myself but explore the maze of hay bales and pumpkins. I just adore fall.

It was blustery today, clouds... blowing leaves. It was all like a Norman Rockwell painting with me meandering through the Autumnal colors as my hair was blowing in the wind.

And then...

And then I stepped wrong and lost my balance and ended up taking a header on a hay bale. Face down - me - pile o' pumkins. I did manage to get my hands out to prevent a total face plant, but I freaking fell in front of The Grocery Store.

Good times.

You never want to discourage A Bride from believing her wedding will be the event of the year. She is entitled to believe what she will, as long as she's not a pain the ass.

To address the question of what happened after I took the phone message from The Bride.

We have a policy that if you raise the number - substantially - after the agreed and contracted cut-off date, the price will be higher. She knew that, and she was ok with that.

She didn't have a choice, really.

The actuall bump in the numbers was about 25, which is what we expected, but prepared food for the larger number, and charged her for all of them. As is standard practice.

The hard part about being encouraging is finding a fine balance about being a realist. The Bride wasn't working with a wedding planner, and was as scatterbrained as could be. Moreover, that late in the game to assume all those people you talked to on the street, in the nail salon, at the gas station or sitting in your OBGYN waiting room might say, "Great - we will be there", but they just won't. Not every person in the world views your wedding day like it's The Royal Wedding.

We knew there is no way that many people would be late comers, but you work your butt off, anyway, making sure it can never be said you didn't do the right thing.

Even if a cat did crawl across your ass in the process.

It's not that I am not a romantic person by nature, I mean - I have that in me.

But some of the stories we hear when dealing with Brides for Wedding Tricks - well, they seem just a little over the top.

We recently met with a bride, and she went into great length discussing her desire for an ice sculpture. She wanted >"... flowy and graceful... I want it to evoke emotion. I want it to be The Groom and I entwined in a loving embrace - and to look like we are floating to the sky in a cloud of passion...I want it to reflect how our married life will be..."

She was dead serious. And hey, good on her. But when she left The Partner looked at me and said, "Maybe I am cold and dead inside, but I think I threw up a little during the ice sculpture description."

"Yeah, good times."

I was having lovely little chat with The Friend in Delaware this morning - about food, of course - when she mentioned getting a few snack items for her kids. As she ran down the list of items she listed Munchos.

I gasped a little.

And I said, "Munchos....What are those?"

Honestly, I had an idea but I dared not get my hopes up.

"You've never had Munchos?"

"Would you like some shipped? "

At this point my breath accelerated to the point of near hyperventilation. And to understand you would have to have known me in my youth - Munchos ranked right up there with Chick-O-Sticks, Archie Comics and Lick-M-Aid.

And Bottle Caps.

And Shawn Cassidy.

But anyway...

I was a Muncho Freak.

They're just chips. But not just any chips. They are thin little wafers of salty goodness. And my friend Lana and I ate them by the bag full. To the point, in fact, our tongues would get so sore from all the salt. Everyone had them - I can still see my class sitting on the bus headed to The Seattle Center to see The King Tut Exhibit, and every kid in every seat was sitting with a bag of Munchos. They were THE snack to be seen with.

And then somewhere along they line - about 20 years ago - they disappeared from the store shelves. And it wasn't long ago that my friend Lana and I had a good laugh over Munchos. Which, well, the reason we laugh is because we were reminiscing about some of my many klutzy tendencies and once on the bus I slipped and fell on the wet floor and in doing so crushed the Munchos in my duffel bag. And it made me so mad I didn't speak for an entire day. (How I made it through my childhood without serious medication is beyond me. How I make it through my adulthood without serious medication is even more of a mystery... )

I just sort of assumed they no longer made them - until today, that is. And as I have searched I see you can buy the damn things on Amazon.

I think I now understand what Neil Armstrong felt like when he touched down on the moon. It's just that dang exciting for me, people.

Thank you The Friend in Delaware - I could kiss you.

I am fairly certain I have expressed this sentiment before: I hate cats.

In all fairness to cats they hate me, too. But the advantage they have over me is the ability to make me sneeze and hive up like freshly plucked chicken skin.

So imagine my dismay when during the unloading of the van at the venue (a private home) I came back to find 3 cats roaming around our goods. Fortunately this wasn't a food load - but there were cats on our stuff just the same.

Now, unlike a dog - a cat is not impressed when you pat your leg and say, "Come on... come here...", and even less impressed when you pat your leg and through gritted teeth say, "Get out here... don't make me come in there..." They just sat there - looking at me. Defying my every word. Mocking me, even.

So I went around to the back door and tried to force them out the side door. Again they mocked me - standing on the rack defiant, looking at one another as if to say, "check out the crazy chick". I decided that I needed to lunge a little - perhaps scare them out the door, but all that did was make them sigh and go hide under the front seat.

By this time all the "pssssssst"-ing and leg tapping and saying mean and vile things about the feline race under my breath had done nothing but exasperate me, so I did what seemed logical at the time. I flailed myself into the back of the van.

I ended up face down in a pile of linens, but did manage to scare two out the side door. The other one - the little bastard - decided to get the last laugh by walking over my back to get out the door, taking the time to rub up against my ankle before taking the leap to the ground.

I laid there for a minute wondering why Karma picked such moments to pay me back for what I know is an unending supply of reasons to get me back. I can't help but take it personally.

But - thank God I can laugh at myself.

And thank God for Benadryl.

I received this note tonight while working the dinner rush.

The man, or Quack, at Table 9 was finished eating dinner, and the guests from Table 5 had just paid their tab and left. The man at table 5 had steak, his dining companion had fish and chips, and didn't finish her fries. Sir Quack asked his server if he could eat the leftover fries. When she declined, his response was, "Well they are gone, who cares?"

I think, perhaps, Sir Quack is the one who is gone.

"Hi, this is The Client. I am just checking to make sure you're still on schedule for the Trick tomorrow. I know you have called a few times to touch base, and I have been too busy to call back. So I am leaving you this message to let you know that the only thing that has changed on my end is that we sent out a few more invitations and need to add another 100 people to the function, possibly 120. I hope that is ok. Thanks!"

Sweet Mother of God.

One of the greatest joys of my life is the fact that I have two refrigerators.

I know, how sad. If that is one of the greatest joys of my life - safe to say my life ranks pretty high on the pathetic scale.

But anyway... I have two refrigerators. One, of course, sits nicely in my kitchen. The second fits nicely in our back storage room/hall - and it's known as The Back Fridge. (We're a creative lot in the Food Whore House.) The Back Fridge holds things like pop (otherwise known as Soda for my East Coast Born Husband), beer, wine, extra condiments that don't fit in The Main Fridge, my supply of cheeses, and it's the place where leftovers go as not to take up space in The Main Fridge.

Now - I try to be very careful not to complain about The Husband. The man, while not perfect, does have to live with me. And that is about like living with a rabid raccoon - cute from a distance, until you look at them wrong and they launch a full scale attack on your manhood and leave you frothing at the mouth.

But Sunday afternoon as I was retrieving beer from The Back Fridge to serve with the snacks I made for the group of us to eat while watching The Seahawks get mauled by Da Bears, I found a couple stray cans of Coke.

To explain why this discovery was so important I need to back track to The Husband's annual physical a few months ago. Everything looked great, but the doctor did express the importance of keeping genetics in mind. The Husband's father has cholesterol issues, and while The Husband does not at this moment, it is important to be aware. And I am aware. I have plenty of conversations with The Mother In Law while she spends time in her garage finding The Father In Law's "secret" stashes of potato chips and Pepsi.

The Man - The Father In Law, that is - is prone to sneaking small bags of potato chips and spending a lot of time "checking the oil" (his words) on the car. The Mother In Law knows the real deal, and sometimes she turns a blind eye, but will share stories of grotesque plaque build up she reads about in medical journals. Other times she finds reasons to go to the garage with him, thereby sabotaging the plot. But she's no fool. She checks his hiding places - often. When she actually catches him in the act, he will come back with a compliment. "Baby, have you lost weight? Baby, you're so pretty. Baby, your hair looks real nice today."

So I deal with the same behaviors from The Husband. And it can be exasperating.

The Doctor asked The Husband if he had any vices, and The Husband was honest enough to say he loved Coke - as in the beverage, not the nose candy which Lindsay Lohan seems to have so much trouble parting with. No, my guy is addicted to red cans of "sweet goodness" as he calls it, and has been known to drink 3 or 4 cans during a push to get a project done.

Now, I am not The Coke Police, but I do know what the doctor said he needed to cut back to the point where he could have one or two a week, until such time he said Buh-Bye to the stuff all together. The Husband was all business in the doctor's office, "Certainly... I understand... no problem... piece of cake... mmmmm cake..."

The Husband asked for my help by having me not buy any from The Grocery Store. "Out of sight, out of mind", he said.

So cut to last week and I got home late from A Trick, and The Husband was working in his office and let out a loud sneeze. Only the loud sneeze didn't cover the sound of a can being opened quite like he thought it would. So when I walked by his office and looked in with raised eyebrow, he had the look of a child sneaking open presents under The Christmas tree. I said nothing, instead going on about my business.

So Sunday when I found the Cokes I turned around to find The Husband standing nervously over me. "Baby, you're so pretty..."

Yeah, yeah. *sigh*