I'm a shitty hostess. I try hard, but when it's all said and done I'm just not cut out for the job. Some people, the Martha Stewart types, live for opportunities to show off their skills. My goal is just to make it through.
I have had overnight house guests for three weekends in a row. Frankly, I'm sick of it. See? That's the kind of statement that would never escape the lips of the hostess with the mostest. I've always suspected I'm a lousy host. Today I confirmed my suspicions.
My brother inlaw and his friend, let's call her Sally, arrived late last night from New York City. This morning I tried my damnedest to be a kick ass host. They were only going to be here for an hour and a half before they had to leave for an all day music concert at a nearby venue. I had ninety minutes to shine. I laid out fresh towels. I baked cinnamon buns. I brewed coffee. I even hand delivered them to Sally while she played with Alice. I was on a roll! When it was time for the duo to leave, I even gave Sally a travel mug for her coffee and sent them on their way. The entire day has now passed and it just occured to me, I served Sally her coffee black...the way I like it. I never offered milk or sugar. It never even crossed my mind. The poor girl, not wanting to trouble me I'm sure, never said a word. I have a very nice handmade sugar bowl and creamer pitcher. The pitcher I use as a vase and I gave the sugar bowl to Alice for her play kitchen. I can't even manage to serve proper coffee.
If this incident was a one time deal, I could forgive myself. But, my friends, it's not. I don't offer my guests a glass of water, even when I myself am drinking one. Most normal people ask, "Can I get you anything? Iced tea? Water?" Not me. It doesn't even enter my brain that my friends may be parched.
I think the saddest thing is that I front like I'm a decent hostess. If you come for Easter breakfast I'll have a kick ass fruit salad, fresh baked croissants, muffins, and mimosas. But if you come for a play date, it's fend for yourself. Don't expect me to offer you anything.
Showing posts with label baker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baker. Show all posts
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Visions of Sugar Plums
My daughter wants to be a baker when she grows up. This has been her ambition for several months now. After reading Fancy Nancy and the Delectable Cupcakes at bedtime a few nights ago, her and I talked.
"Mama? What's it called, what I want to be? Not a cook..."
"A baker."
"Yeah, that's it. I wanna be a baker and make cakes and cupcakes, like Fancy Nancy did. But I'd make chocolate."
"Chocolate is good. Is that your favorite flavor?" I asked.
"Yes. But Mama? When I'm a baker, I might need some help. I'm not very big and I can't reach the big bowls and I can't do the oven. Will you be a baker with me? I might get lonely, too, doing it all by myself in the kitchen. And I will need your help. I don't know all the ingredients. I know butter and sugar and chocolate chips and vanilla and raw eggs. You're my best friend, so will you be a baker with me?"
"Of course. I'll be a baker with you," I tell her.
The odds are, Alice will have many career goals before she gets to college. Even then, she's likely to change majors and down the road, possibly change careers all together. That's entirely okay. I will support her dreams.
For now, her dreams are literally about cakes. The other night, having sleeping troubles in her own bed, Alice found herself in my bed, dreaming. I was awaken to the sound of her halfway crying, calling out, and very distraught.
"NO MAMA! I wanted the icing on it! Mama, NOOOO!"
I'm not sure about the criminal act I was committing. Seriously, how dare I take the icing off! I mean, everything is better with icing. What I do know is Alice eats, sleeps, and breaths sweets. All children do, I suppose. My girl seems to take it to an extreme. Sweets are constantly in the forefront of her mind. She could stare at the pastry counter in Whole Foods for hours admiring the pretty cakes, tarts, and petit fours, asking for clarification about the names of items. She looks through my cake cookbook with the same sparkle in her eye as when she's reading Sleeping Beauty or Rapunzel. If 20 years from now she's pursuing a career as a pastry chef, I will proudly say I knew it all along. Then again, a few months ago, part of me thought she was destined to be a UPS driver. So there's that.
"Mama? What's it called, what I want to be? Not a cook..."
"A baker."
"Yeah, that's it. I wanna be a baker and make cakes and cupcakes, like Fancy Nancy did. But I'd make chocolate."
"Chocolate is good. Is that your favorite flavor?" I asked.
"Yes. But Mama? When I'm a baker, I might need some help. I'm not very big and I can't reach the big bowls and I can't do the oven. Will you be a baker with me? I might get lonely, too, doing it all by myself in the kitchen. And I will need your help. I don't know all the ingredients. I know butter and sugar and chocolate chips and vanilla and raw eggs. You're my best friend, so will you be a baker with me?"
"Of course. I'll be a baker with you," I tell her.
The odds are, Alice will have many career goals before she gets to college. Even then, she's likely to change majors and down the road, possibly change careers all together. That's entirely okay. I will support her dreams.
For now, her dreams are literally about cakes. The other night, having sleeping troubles in her own bed, Alice found herself in my bed, dreaming. I was awaken to the sound of her halfway crying, calling out, and very distraught.
"NO MAMA! I wanted the icing on it! Mama, NOOOO!"
I'm not sure about the criminal act I was committing. Seriously, how dare I take the icing off! I mean, everything is better with icing. What I do know is Alice eats, sleeps, and breaths sweets. All children do, I suppose. My girl seems to take it to an extreme. Sweets are constantly in the forefront of her mind. She could stare at the pastry counter in Whole Foods for hours admiring the pretty cakes, tarts, and petit fours, asking for clarification about the names of items. She looks through my cake cookbook with the same sparkle in her eye as when she's reading Sleeping Beauty or Rapunzel. If 20 years from now she's pursuing a career as a pastry chef, I will proudly say I knew it all along. Then again, a few months ago, part of me thought she was destined to be a UPS driver. So there's that.
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