All of which is very nice, for us, but then when guests are imminent, there's always a level of panic because we aren't used to putting people up. A sleeper sofa upstairs would solve the problem, but since we don't really want to solve the problem and thus have a constant stream of guests, we're inclined to keep the recamier and its toss pillows and relegate our overnights to the basement bed. And then, a few weeks ago, my mother-in-law announced that she would be coming to stay a few days, along with Jane, Dale's sister. (During, I might add, the hottest part of the summer, and we have never installed central air, the house being so tiny it doesn't seem to warrant it.)Two guests are a little tricky, so I figured I'd just order a new mattress to replace the ancient piece of petrified foam that lay on the trundle bed, and in the meantime went on a cleaning frenzy, trying to sort through the piles of clutter and make the house somewhat presentable. Well, to make a long story short, I had to make do with a cushion from the fainting couch sheeted up to resemble a real mattress and tucked into the trundle bed downstairs. I guess the bright side is, they won't be back anytime soon, not after those sleeping arrangements. In all fairness, we did offer then our bed, but they would have had to share it, at which they demurred.
So, they came, they stayed, I cleaned within an inch of my life, and I am half-conscious now that they have finally gone. I ran around setting tables, cleaning, baking biscuits and pie, folding linens and fluffing pillows, like some crazed Stepford wife who is all amped-up on crystal meth. The whole visit was focused on what we were going to eat next, and when we were going to eat it, like some fat-people's Carnival Cruise. A breakfast of champions the first morning: bacon, as much as I could possibly fry up, piles of white toast, fresh brown eggs from the farmer's market scrambled up in glossy, fluffy curds, and fresh-squeezed (store-bought) orange juice, but I realized too late from the still-hungry looks around the table, that I should have tossed up some home fries, and maybe attempted Yankee-girl grits or some kippers. Sigh.
So, realizing that tonight's dinner is probably inadequate for these appetites, we pile into the car. The plan is for me to get dropped off at the farmer's market and Trader Joe's to hunt and gather and take the bus home laden like a pack mule, while Dale chauffeurs the girls in a peculiar scenic tour of the backside of Brooklyn. I fetch sausages, fresh chopped meat, corn on the cob, heirloom tomatoes, breads, fresh string beans, spring onions, and some snack food. I lumber onto the bus, swinging bags from both shoulders like a Sherpa climbing Everest, glad that the plan is to cook out, since last night for their arrival dinner, the homemade biscuits at 475ยบ heated up the kitchen a bit oppressively.
My back and legs are throbbing, and a kidney stone is making its presence felt though not in the mindbending stage of pain yet. Still, when I get home I ache to lie down, but before I do I need to shuck corn and slice tomatoes, to have all the side dishes ready at dinner. In my mind's eye, Dale has pulled over during their tour and fed the ladies on empanadas or knishes, pupusas or somosas, dolmades or cuchifritos, babaganoush, hummus, any of the thousands of delicacies I iamagine they are bypassing on their scenic tour.
Except that the door clangs open and they troupe in, ravenous, because Dale has driven them around Lowe's, the piers, Ocean Parkway, Avenue S, a kind of odd's eye view of Brooklyn only without any lunch. He is suddenly nowhere to be found, no doubt desperately in need of a moment alone, but I know full well that it simply hadn't occurred to him since he wasn't hungry himself, so I pull down a platter and start tearing apart the cabinets for anything that will pass for a surprise late lunch, spreading crostini with artichoke pesto, slicing a summer sausage and some cheddar cheese, putting out little bowls of olives and nuts, crackers and then a few little cakes and ginger snaps, pouring tall glasses of iced tea for my exhausted in-laws who by now are ready to pass out from hunger. I leave it out on a tray for them, excusing myself, because at this point I really have to go upstairs and put ice on my back and take some mega-Advil.
And so it goes, Dale manfully attempting to fend off the worst of the cooking for me by doing the grilling outside, we pray a blessing over every meal, also not a habit Dale and I are used to. Not that I altogether mind that, sometimes I feel like doing it when it's just we two, but after the hostess going to so much effort to serve the food piping hot, I think blessings should be kept short, sweet, and to the point. So, I grumble, but only because of the disturbance to the usual household routine: the truth is that it's helpful to have an excuse to get the place a bit cleaner, and to have an in-law visit without having to drive for ten hours to Ohio. And my in-laws, I know, are the best of their kind, because they have always been welcoming, warm, and eager to know me.
And yet---we wave goodbye and I am thrilled at our newly quiet house; no doubt they have found some glaring example of my inept care of Dale to chatter about during the drive, but overall I seem to have passed inspection, the food was eaten, the beds were slept in, small talk was made, pictures were shown and admired, stories told and applauded. The house is cleaner than it has been since the last in-law visit, and I can turn to Dale and bask in the grateful gleam in his eyes.
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