I’m obscure on the internet but I am quite aware that everything seems to last forever in this medium.
We had guests this weekend, one a person we knew from college, decades ago.
I am tired. Very. But I am going to wait, just a bit, on writing about The Lost Weekend.
With the exception of family members and a very few friends, I would say we are not the entertaining sort that throw big bashes with themes. I’m more of a “come over and have a cup of coffee with me” sort of gal. One on one, long conversations, here, have another piece of shortbread.
However, in honor of this weekend, I want to share with you an entertaining tale of entertaining.
About ten years ago, we were contacted by friends, a couple we had met at church, in another state. They moved, we moved and the friendship morphed into the yearly Christmas newsletter sort of contact where we read of houses bought, careers launched, babies born. Then, one day, I got a letter with exciting news.
We’d love to see you in your Colorado home! she wrote, adding that they would be in our hometown for a convention. Come over for dinner, I offered.
The couple hadn’t seemed to have changed a bit since we saw them last and they brought with them their two school aged boys, both quiet, polite children. I had pot roast and mashed potatoes, rolls and butter, salads-all sorts of good things to eat served on the good china in the dining room. Two pies, one cherry, one chocolate, sat on the kitchen counter waiting for their starring roles in the dessert course. Lovely conversations continued as I refilled iced tea glasses and urged second helpings.
Silently, their eldest child got up from the table and headed into the kitchen as I was gathering up the dirty dishes.
I heard the sound of liquid hitting the wood floor with a splat. Did the boy spill something?
His mother jumped up and ran into the kitchen. “Oh dear. I think he may have picked up something on the airplane.”
Uh oh. I hurried into the next room.
What came next was baffling.
The boy had vomited and his dinner was a runny puddle of chunks. He had then thrown himself on the ground and was on his back, waving his arms and legs madly.
You know how to make a snow angel? This child was making a puke angel.
With every wave of his arms, yellow droplets were flung, spattering the walls, the white cabinets, the tile counter tops and even a bit of the ceiling.
“He tends to be a bit dramatic,” his mother explained.
She pulled him up and led him into the bathroom to clean up while I dealt with the mess in the kitchen.
My husband decided to keep his seat in the dining room. Out of sight, out of mind, was his line of thinking.
I found spare clothes, gathered up the ruined ones into a plastic bag. A bucket, rubber gloves, disinfectant and 20 minutes later, dessert was served.
But the story is not over yet. Not quite. The family returned to their five star hotel for the evening. The following day, the mother called and said she had something for me.
She didn’t have to do that, I insisted.
She said she needed to do so.
When I opened the door, she greeted me with the bag of clothes she had borrowed and, in gratitude, she gifted me with…
the coffee packet from their hotel coffee maker.