Grill you later!

3:49 pm: Win! Grill Sunday is an overwhelming success. After getting the old girl out of the box, arranging the parts, and beering up, our buddy Brian McDermott from down the street joined us to offer Mr. Husband moral and beer support. Brian brought with him a thirsty appetite and knowledge of many grills of years past. He knew what way up to place the washers, he knew that a certain thing-a-ma-jiggie was going to pop out of the bottom of a plastic shoot, and he helped secure the warming station to the right side of the grill. Basically, Brian was a font of knowledge and a wealth of help.

I could hear the two of them out in the garage making jokes about the parts and telling stories. It was like music to my ears. No longer was Mr. Husband stressed or perplexed—he had support in the form of man help. While wife help can be supportive and stroke the ego, man help often actually helps get the job done. Man help to the rescue! They laughed and cheered each other on. Ok, maybe they didn’t “cheer” exactly. Maybe I’m adding a bit too much girl commentary to the situation. Oops. They grunted and threw wrenches at each other and rolled around in the dirt. They were men. Men with a grill. Men with a big giant grill purpose. And beer.

Brian and his wife invited us over for ribs that Brian has been cooking since 10:00 this morning. Awesome. Who, like, would not want that? Even if you don’t, imagine that you do. This is the perfect ending for Grill Sunday—we’ll go and see what is possible with our very own grill. We'll go and watch the grill master … and we’ll dream. We will live grill all day. Grill! So while the boys were in the garage, rolling in dirt and talking all sorts of man stuff (bring me a hammer), I found my place in the kitchen. Holy crap—if I had berries to gather and pick, I would have. All was right with the world for two hours in our home as the men fixed something and the women cooked. Sharon, Brian’s wife, soon joined me in the kitchen as I cooked couscous and sautéed vegetables to go with the super ribs that we’re about to have very, very soon. I’m sure that somewhere the universe reset herself and smiled upon us. I’m sure.

I was a good wife and refilled beer glasses when needed.
That Heineken keg I bought for Mr. Husband for the first anniversary is really coming in handy. Fresh beer for the mens. Mr. Husband struggled with his electric screwdriver and learned a plethora of new things today. I honestly believe he can now tackle any obstacle and leap any building with a single bound. Nothing can stop this man. We are homeowners (Grrrrr!), we are grill masters (Grrrrr!), we can fix anything and make it right (Grrrr!).

Life is good.

At the end of all of it, we posed for several family shots with the new grill. We needed a jazz hands photo, super necessary. This one is for Harold who will next year eat amazing foods off our grill. Harold—you will come home from Iraq and eat the most awesome super food ever in our home. I can’t wait for you to be here and know the power of the grill. One tiny jazz hand for Harold, one giant grill hand for Haroldkind. You will be so impressed, Hario.

And then, the end. This is the end, the gentle grill. Where did our sweet grill end up? In the side yard on our tiny stoop of a porch where she will live? No. She did not venture there. Mr. Husband was good to me and put her back in her place. Here she sits on the right side of the garage, outside my driver’s side door, ready and willing to bang up my door and smash my legs. Thank you, Mr. Husband. I love you. My legs are ever thankful. He’s a funny man, and that’s worth more than anything in the world.

The stages of death for the Grill Box.

At 1:25 pm, Mr. Husband made a beer run. We must have beer for Grill Sunday, a major detail we accidentally overlooked. Mr. Husband made the trek to Jefferson County (about five minutes down Hwy 280) to locate a kindly beer vendor that sells beer on Sundays in Alabama. He promptly arrived home at 1:50 pm and surveyed my garage-cleaning work. My work was approved, but the laying of the boxes for parts proved tricky. Mr. Husband tripped over the boxes several times. Expletives rained down from the Giant’s mouth. The boxes were kicked to the side of the garage but still served good for the laying of the parts.

Beer was placed carefully into the fridge in order to chill it further. Glasses placed into the freezer in order to freeze them for icy beer. The garage was our next destination: mission get-grill-out-of-box began at 2:00 pm.

First order of the day, remove grill from its carefully packed and helpful location on the right side of the garage. Oh, how I will miss hitting the grill box with my driver’s side door every time I attempt to exit the Beetle. Oh, how I will miss the snap-back that crunches my left protruding leg or smashes my head when I try to exit the Beetle and the grill box tries to foil my plan.
No exit strategy has been complete in these past nine months without attempting to out-think the carefully planted grill box. Curses! I’ll miss it in some annoying way. Like ear wax. Just like I miss ear wax once it’s been ejected from my ear. Yes. Just like that.

At 2:.05 pm, the first cut was made into the grill box. We heard her scream. We heard her protest and bargain. All the stages of death were laid out before us as the grill box tried in vain to alter our plan. No therapy for our grill box—only finality. Snap! Zip! Rip! The grill box was open and Styrofoam and plastic burst to life. Box after box was birthed before us as the grill box in her final stage of death vomited her internal organs all over the garage floor. More tape. More plastic wrap. Everything wrapped up with an imaginary bow. We pulled out her tiny little pieces, enjoying every bit of it. I believe we were singing though we didn’t realize it. It was a happy moment and our garage ate up every little bit.

I opened the smaller boxes, producing parts and bits and more parts. I unwrapped and put on display the tiny metal works that will soon come together to make our grill a grill. We needed you box. We needed you at one time. Your time is done. It is over. You are being gutted like a pig. The pieces never stopped. They kept on coming. One piece after another—none of them making sense. Oh, the chaos that burst forth from that dreadful grill box!

And, then, the head. She had semblance of meaning. She had easily recognizable shape. We know that grill. We know her. She is the one we have dreamt about for so long. And, then, Mr. Husband carefully reaches in, caressing her stainless exterior, lifting her to life. She comes easily after the grill box lets go of her death grip. It was a fight, but Mr. Husband won. She looked heavier than she was—she was gentle when once removed from the evil grill box. She came willingly.

And so all the parts were splayed out about us. A cacophony of metal, screaming to be assembled. One last important part: the manual. Mr. Husband picked up the manual among the parts, ready to read to all of us … and then we see it. A clearly indicated “Stop.” Clear. Precise. To the point. Full. Stop. This must mean beer.

Time for a beer break.

Have Blog, Will Travel. Need Grill.

Today is grill Sunday! Yes! After nine months (the amount of time that we could have spit out a newborn baby had our bodies been willing) the grill that I bought Mr. Husband for last year’s Birthannukah in August will finally be put together. Amazing. So amazing that I can’t believe it will really happen. Mr. Husband has offered a bevy of reasons for why the nine-month-old grill has yet to leave its box that is carefully holding up a variety of other things in our garage. Where will the extra cat carrier go? Where will the box of who-knows-what go? How will the mountain of empty luggage prop itself up on the side of our cluttered garage if we move the grill box?

Mysteries will be revealed today! The restructuring of the right side of the cluttered garage will be unveiled as we move the grill from its loving box. I can’t even imagine what it will be like. Is it real? Pinch me! Ouch! It’s not real yet.

Why? Because Mr. Husband is playing Fallout3. He needed to relax. Here he is down in the living room with coffee cup beside him and all hunched over, living his post-apocalyptical dream. That’s my Super Husband—saving the world at every turn. Or not turn really. Every seat. No, not that either. Every hunched over-staring-at-the-screen-until-his-eyes-bleed-slight-twitch-of-the-neck if something disturbs him while he’s on his mission. Go soldier!

But the grill! It’s Grill Sunday. We’ve been calling it that for weeks. Well, in all honesty, I’ve been calling it that for weeks. Mr. Husband has nodded in hesitant agreement.
But I saw the nod. I witnessed it. It was there. While it may have been faint at times and almost non-existent at others—there was a nod once. At least once I really saw it go. But he’s so happy with his video game and his hunching and his bleeding eyeballs.

I need grilled meats. I need. I do not mind losing the steady box-like structure from the right side of the garage. I will help. I will hand him the wrench or the screwdriver or the mallet or the axe. Whatever he needs, I will help. I will plant an herb garden beside him. It will be fair. We will both work in the garage together. Saving the video game world can wait. Save my grill! Save my grilled meats from never seeing the light of day. And I have the perfect plates. They’re called “grill plates” from Villeryoy & Boch. They have little squares sectioned off for not-grilled items and a large area for grilled items. Need a grill to fill the grilled items section! Please let us light the grill (once it’s out of its box and put together). Let us buy propane and propane accessories.

12:40 pm: Still no grill. Mr. Husband is holding down the enemy on the couch.

Sign of the Times.

I don’t think there’s been a time when I’ve not been planning a party. I like to help gather people together to celebrate. When I saw Mr. Husband for the second time ever, it was at a birthday lunch that I’d planned. We locked eyes. I kept trying to play the stare game. He looked scared. Now I know he probably was. The third time ever that I met Mr. Husband was at another party that I helped plan. We have a good track record. As our relationship picked up warp speed from the beginning, it has been one party after another. The pinnacle, of course, was our wedding party that we spent almost a year planning together, keeping our guests in mind as the main beneficiaries (other than us, the lucky couple).

Mr. Husband supports me in all things. He is always eager to ride shotgun for another party planning. And when it’s time to get the show on the road with cooking, decorating, and other last minute details—Mr. Husband is right there next to me asking what he can do next to help. There is a good reason he wears the shiny moniker of “Super.”

Next weekend is the Yacoub baby shower. Nader and Hind. Nader was my bestie for years and years. Then we had to grow up and start being adults. He found Hind, and I found Mr. Husband. Nader and Hind were not trying to get pregnant. Lucky buggars got pregnant by accident. Oops! That is so romantic. She is due to give birth to a bouncing baby boy on July 1st. We will toast them wildly on May 30th. Debbie and I have been stuck in the trenches with relentless planning for weeks and weeks. We’re down to the wire, which is my favorite place to be.

This is a different kind of shower. It’s a couples shower because it’s so much more fun to involve the husband. And any shower I help plan is simply an occasion for the entire group to get together. Bring one, bring two, bring all. Just bring it. And let us eat cake! Not only is this a couples shower but it is also a kid shower. Everyone but us has kids in our group of friends, so the kids come first. There will be a moonwalk in the backyard, squirt guns for the kids, and other special activities for the kids. Kids! Kids! Kids! It is an event where the parents and kids can hang out and party in the guise of a baby shower. Of course, Nader and Hind are important, too.

Debbie arranged for a gang of girls to get together to make the centerpiece of the shower: a diaper cake. There is no cake in a diaper cake and you cannot eat it. Well, you can, but it’s, like, plastic and other diaper stuff. Ew. Anyhow, we got together and drank margaritas and rolled diapers up to make an architecturally sound cake-looking contraption. Kari Whitaker came with what must have been at least twelve years experience of diaper rolling and diaper caking. She led the diaper rolling initiative as Debbie shared her vision and inspired the troops.
Kelly Ray helped solve the age-old question about ribbon (to ribbon or not to ribbon) and helped decide upon other accruements for the final touches. And what did I do? Instead of adding another cook to the kitchen for the diaper cake creation extravaganza, I focused on the most important part of the baby shower: signage.

Sure, sure, sure—the diaper cake might be beautiful to look at and serve a greater purpose down the line in actually evolving into usable diapers, but signage is timeless. Signage is helpful. Signage rules the world. I love signage. I took a few photos of incredibly helpful signage while in Germany the other month. I kid you not, signage will save the world. I cannot stress the importance of accurate signage. May the death of all ages come upon us—but let us at least have proper signage to tell us where to go and what to do.

The third hostess, cousin Kelley, suggested that we offer a make-a-onesie table. Ah, the onesie: the gift that keeps on giving after wash after wash after wash after spit-up. The little t-shirt, body-suit, baby armor that all newborns are not complete without wearing daily. This simple piece of clothing is a baby staple. New York fashion week devotes an entire stage for babies to waddle down in the year’s hottest onesies. They are big. They are actually small, very tiny, but they are essential. And, apparently, you need a lot of them. That’s big. So we’ll have this table filled with naked little onesies where guests can splash some of their very own art upon to make them fashionable.

This definitely calls for a sign! Yes, and so it does and so I did. I made the best darn little sign in the world. I dedicated hours to making the world’s most wonderful sign so that guests will know what they’re supposed to do. A signage of the times, a signage for all. While Debs, Kari, and Kelly devoted all their craft skills to the diaper cake assembly, I sat at the table and carefully constructed my sign. I talked a little. Maybe I talked a lot. Yes, I talked a lot. I drank a margarita. I talked some more.

I realized that I misspelled the most important word in my sign: onesie. I forgot the first “e.” Frak. Think quick. This can be fixed. Ah, yes, add an “f” to the beginning. Yes! While this small edit changes the entire meaning of the sign, the sign is not only saved but also super cool. You know, like Happy Days cool. Perfect.

And so the guests are now going to make a fonsie. Sweet. Good signage is just so very important. Mr. Husband fully approves this message.

Birthannukah Win.

Birthannukah: how awesome was it? So. So very. Mr. Husband spoiled me rotten, he rallied the troops, and he was my constant feel-good companion. The best part was the visit from my mother. Mr. Husband loves my mother. And why not? My mother feeds him low fat Pringles and Cheetos non-stop. He calls my parents’ home in Florida the home of the endless Pringles. Whatever Mr. Husband wants, he gets. And so they cater to each other and I benefit. Win.

Birthannukah began with a sapphire and diamond ring. It’s true that I had a naked right hand. Mr. Husband bathed it in diamonds with a sleek dark blue stoned ring that makes me purr every time I look down at it. It goes perfectly with my apron and my mother while eating dinner on the upper porch. A fancy apron in my favorite colors, pink and black, came on the second day of Birthannukah with two new cookbooks. We have a baby shower coming up for Hind and Nader where I will test out many of the recipes in the appetizer cookbooks. I could live off appetizers. Need there ever be other food? Mr. Husband used the other cookbook to make cheese biscuits for his mother on Mother’s Day. Another win.

Mr. Husband was patient, kind, and our constant photographer while my mother steered us toward one mall after another. She’d breathe quickly, panting like a cat on the African plains, and pounce on the sale racks. She’d sigh and remind me time after time after time after time that “they don’t have stores like this in The Villages.” No big anchor mall stores for her in her simple little wine-induced bubble. Only country clubs and up-scale boutiques. No 50% off racks where you can use the all-day pass coupon for an additional 20% off. She never wanted to leave. I just wanted to play. Mr. Husband watched and guided us through store after store. He snapped photographs and listened to our laughter. He looked on proudly, knowing that he’d helped make it all happen. He’s right. He’s so very good. Win.

The pinnacle of my mother’s trip was not Belk’s super clearance shoe room (surprise), but a trip to my favorite restaurant: Chez Lulu. We descended upon the little village for cheese, fancy spreads, the best bread in town, and my favorite Brie sandwich with lentil soup. It wasn’t a Peasant Garlic soup day,
which was disappointing since my mother would never have stopped talking about that soup once she returned to her bubble in Florida. At all times, keep in mind that mother will constantly annoy others with her trip details if I can plan the perfect outing. My mother can do that so well—tell one detail after another about how great her trip was—until those listening are rolling their eyes. It’s like a gift I can give to others: treat her so darn good that she never shuts up about it. Mom was traveling back with my older brother and sister-in-law. I hope their ears bled from hearing about what a good time she had. Yes! Win.

Finally, the end. A perfect end. Friends for dinner—always the group of friends. We will grow old together celebrating birthday after birthday after birthday together. Two of them are pregnant at the moment. I sit and wait. We eat and we laugh. The wine is passed round the table. We get out our jazz hands. We have perfected the birthday jazz hands. I’m toasted, I’m roasted, and kissed by my man. I feel loved. I know happiness. It is another wonderful Birthannukah: the birthday that never stops.

The crowning glory is a Coach briefcase that we had to order. How regal and professional I feel with my new beauty on my arm. I can pretend to be anyone. Now I’m in Manhattan. Now I’m in Tokyo. Look at me in London! My important work documents never felt so very important. My old Liz Claiborne bag bought at an outlet nine years ago and losing its leather from the fabric underbelly has been retired. She did me good, but nothing can argue with a Coach. It’s pure sleek beauty. The best thing: the giant bag from the Coach store that the briefcase traveled home in. On Saturday, both cats fought over the right to lay on the bag. Bonita won. The Senator slapped her a few times, but she would not relent. The plastic of the bag was pure kitty gold. Win.

That Birthannukah Time of Year!

Mr. Husband is ever child-like in his surprises and sneak-attacks. This morning, he snuck-attacked me good. I was still sleeping in my Thera-Flu-induced fever sleep, taking up the entire bed and rolling around on his pillow. He came bounding down the stairs with his kid voice all jumping around in his throat—he was excited. Nothing excites Mr. Husband more than surprising me with some new wonder or something wonderful that he’s done for me without my knowing. It’s like the love notes in our suitcases. It’s like the threatening notes I write on his lunch bag to warn others not to eat my husband’s lunch. It’s like the love letters that we write to each other from time to time and send via email even though we work within spitting distance of each other, drive to work together, and sleep on top of each other—always together. Even though we live the super smother lifestyle, we still need to let each other know that despite the incredible familiar and always being together, we are very thankful every day for each other.

Surprises are a wonderful way to express this sentiment. Celebrating each other’s birthday is the best way in the world to get the message out: I appreciate you!

The economy is bad. Everyone knows this. But I didn’t realize how bad until the memo came out about Birthannukah. Birthannukah, the festival of birthday candle lights, is being cut from a seven day holiday with seven nights of surprises and mystery to three and half nights of economically feasible magic that will fit into our house-murdered budget. Not my Birthannukah! Nooooooo! Killed by the economy. Not killed, but maimed. Seriously harmed.

Mr. Husband will work hard to see that Birthannukah still has a pop!

This morning, his bounding down the stairs was the opening ceremony. He handed me my iPhone and wanted me to see an email. Sweet, loving, wonderful man: he renamed my blog. What? What the blog!? Renamed my blog?! Sweet, loving, wonderful man—do not rename my blog! That is mine. But it was such a kind gesture. Up until today, the blog has been called, “Things I learned from my husband in our first year of marriage.” Well, technically, we are out of our first year of marriage. While we still feel like honeymooners, today is actually the year and a half mark from the day we were wed on the church steps at Riverchase United Methodist Church. An anniversary of such. So, sweet, loving, wonderful Mr. Husband renamed my blog to “Werewolf Lane.” Ok. Er ….

Good, but the Werewolf Lane joke is old (from last year when we were building the house). It’s not a constant that I carry throughout the writing. But—even better—he bought the domain werewolflane.com for me. Amazing. Now that’s hot. He set up www.werewolflane.com to direct to the blog. Sweet. But I am immediately concerned about all those werewolf freaks and Twilight kids who are looking for news about werewolves and annoyingly directed to my blog when searching for interesting facts about werewolves on google.com. I am a disappointment. These kids are finding themselves staring at an increasingly annoying blog about our stupid marriage and how incredibly, sickeningly, make-you-vomit-in-your-mouth happy we are. I can’t in my right mind do that to those little werewolf-obsessed kids. Poor kids. I will not be the cause of your disappointment and, most likely, scorn.
The domain remains, but the blog is clearly marked with its potentially annoying content being not for the werewolf at heart. Zombies will eat it up, but werewolves may find the taste of bile in their mouths.

Mr. Husband also announced “Happy Birthannukah” to me in the description of the blog. Sweet, loving, wonderful man! I love him! I laughed. Of course, I renamed the blog when finally getting upstairs to the library today. The blog is now called “Things I’m Learning From My Husband While Living on Werewolf Lane.” He was right to force me to rename the blog. It has a new face and a new domain! Score! Good start to Birthannukah.

He also bought the domain heatherklusendorf.com. Sweet, loving, wonderful man! He said, “I know how much your name means to you.” See, I’ve never been able to make the full transition to “Stewart,” my married name. I am definitely Mrs. Stewart, I have a bag to prove it, but for writing and work—I retained my maiden name. I was 35 when I got married—I had established myself as “Klusendorf” in published articles and within the electronic publishing world. This gift from Mr. Husband—the gift of my name as a domain—was the most romantic and sweet-make-you-cry kind of thing he ever could have done. I do not insist on my maiden name and do go by “Stewart,” but it’s been too hard for me to let go of my name. Mr. Husband is making sure I never have to.

I love this man.

No wonder he was so excited. He cornered the economic setbacks and did for me for under $10. The most romantic gesture ever. He did for me. And he did good.

Mr. Husband is ever child-like in his surprises and sneak-attacks. This morning, he snuck-attacked me good. I was still sleeping in my Thera-Flu-induced fever sleep, taking up the entire bed and rolling around on his pillow. He came bounding down the stairs with his kid voice all jumping around in his throat—he was excited. Nothing excites Mr. Husband more than surprising me with some new wonder or something wonderful that he’s done for me without my knowing. It’s like the love notes in our suitcases. It’s like the threatening notes I write on his lunch bag to warn others not to eat my husband’s lunch. It’s like the love letters that we write to each other from time to time and send via email even though we work within spitting distance of each other, drive to work together, and sleep on top of each other—always together. Even though we live the super smother lifestyle, we still need to let each other know that despite the incredible familiar and always being together, we are very thankful every day for each other.

Surprises are a wonderful way to express this sentiment. Celebrating each other’s birthday is the best way in the world to get the message out: I appreciate you!

The economy is bad. Everyone knows this. But I didn’t realize how bad until the memo came out about Birthannukah. Birthannukah, the festival of birthday candle lights, is being cut from a seven day holiday with seven nights of surprises and mystery to three and half nights of economically feasible magic that will fit into our house-murdered budget. Not my Birthannukah! Nooooooo! Killed by the economy. Not killed, but maimed. Seriously harmed.

Mr. Husband will work hard to see that Birthannukah still has a pop!

This morning, his bounding down the stairs was the opening ceremony. He handed me my iPhone and wanted me to see an email. Sweet, loving, wonderful man: he renamed my blog. What? What the blog!? Renamed my blog?! Sweet, loving, wonderful man—do not rename my blog! That is mine. But it was such a kind gesture. Up until today, the blog has been called, “Things I learned from my husband in our first year of marriage.” Well, technically, we are out of our first year of marriage. While we still feel like honeymooners, today is actually the year and a half mark from the day we were wed on the church steps at Riverchase United Methodist Church. An anniversary of such. So, sweet, loving, wonderful Mr. Husband renamed my blog to “Werewolf Lane.” Ok. Er ….

Good, but the Werewolf Lane joke is old (from last year when we were building the house). It’s not a constant that I carry throughout the writing. But—even better—he bought the domain werewolflane.com for me. Amazing. Now that’s hot. He set up www.werewolflane.com to direct to the blog. Sweet. But I am immediately concerned about all those werewolf freaks and Twilight kids who are looking for news about werewolves and annoyingly directed to my blog when searching for interesting facts about werewolves on google.com. I am a disappointment. These kids are finding themselves staring at an increasingly annoying blog about our stupid marriage and how incredibly, sickeningly, make-you-vomit-in-your-mouth happy we are. I can’t in my right mind do that to those little werewolf-obsessed kids. Poor kids. I will not be the cause of your disappointment and, most likely, scorn.
The domain remains, but the blog is clearly marked with its potentially annoying content being not for the werewolf at heart. Zombies will eat it up, but werewolves may find the taste of bile in their mouths.

Mr. Husband also announced “Happy Birthannukah” to me in the description of the blog. Sweet, loving, wonderful man! I love him! I laughed. Of course, I renamed the blog when finally getting upstairs to the library today. The blog is now called “Things I’m Learning From My Husband While Living on Werewolf Lane.” He was right to force me to rename the blog. It has a new face and a new domain! Score! Good start to Birthannukah.

He also bought the domain heatherklusendorf.com. Sweet, loving, wonderful man! He said, “I know how much your name means to you.” See, I’ve never been able to make the full transition to “Stewart,” my married name. I am definitely Mrs. Stewart, I have a bag to prove it, but for writing and work—I retained my maiden name. I was 35 when I got married—I had established myself as “Klusendorf” in published articles and within the electronic publishing world. This gift from Mr. Husband—the gift of my name as a domain—was the most romantic and sweet-make-you-cry kind of thing he ever could have done. I do not insist on my maiden name and do go by “Stewart,” but it’s been too hard for me to let go of my name. Mr. Husband is making sure I never have to.

I love this man.

No wonder he was so excited. He cornered the economic setbacks and did for me for under $10. The most romantic gesture ever. He did for me. And he did good.

And the seeds that were silent all burst into bloom.

I am still kind of sick, so what do I do? Cook for others. The swine flu jokes never get old. I’m totally lying. They so do. My voice has been gone for most of the week, and I cannot keep from coughing unless totally drugged up on medicine that makes me feel all woozy and in a pretend world. Throughout, Mr. Husband has cared for me like the best super-husband-nursemaid ever. I’ve continued to go to work, trying to stay on top of projects, but it’s been hard. Relief must be right around the corner. It must because we have a busy life to lead.

I am no longer contagious, so we kept up with our social activities this week. The biggest event we had this week was a dinner party with The Cheeks and The Mackles. The Cheeks and The Mackles knew each other from college many years ago. Turns out, the Mackles are our new across-the-street neighbors. The man-part of the Cheeks used to be part of my lunch crew when Nader worked with us—he and his wife-part have been friends for over six years. Our circle of friends got a little bit big larger when The Cheeks and The Mackles realized they both knew The Stewarts. So we brought the happy group together for a dinner party that took, like, two months to plan since all couples are way too busy. After cancelled plans stalled the party at least twice, I was not going to let the stupid-cold-that-lingers-too-long kill this dinner party. No way. I’d done way too much planning.

On Monday, Frank Stitt’s Bottega Favorita arrived in the mail from Amazon. Tuesday morning, I quickly poured through the recipes while making Mr. Husband’s breakfast and lunch. Without much time, I selected three recipes: Veal Milanse (page 168), Roasted Fingerling Potatoes with Herbs (page 196), and Zucchini Ribbon Sauté (page 190). The veal became chicken because, eww veal, the ribbon sauté had to be less than ribbon because I do not have a mandoline, and the fingerling potatoes had to become baby golds since Fresh Market was out of fingerlings. I am flexible and bendy. I can substitute and add and make it work.

The plan was to leave work at 4:30 and have dinner ready at 6:00. Did I mention that I was cooking from Frank Stitt’s cookbook? His meals take preparation and planning. His meals take time. I was still slow from the-cold-that-overstayed-its-welcome. I may have been too ambitious. I was. By the time dinner was done around 7:30, I was sweaty, anxious, rushed, had dropped the pan of roasted potatoes into the oven, burned the braiser pan because I do not understand how to cook with olive oil, filled the entire house with smoke and had to open all doors and windows to air it out, and quick-improvised the chicken that was supposed to be cooked entirely on the stove by shoving it half-cooked into the oven. It was not relaxing. It was hideous. I was embarrassed and visibly upset. This caused my guests to be most likely a little freaked out and feeling awkward as they tried to help. I could see the expressions on their faces—they were worried that the meal was going to suck. That was painful to watch.

Lesson learned: for a quick meal with more than two guests after work on a school night—make pot roast. Keep it simple.

Was the meal good? Yes. It was outstanding. Yes! I was more than pleased by the end result. The lemon butter herb sauce was the most amazing thing I’ve ever made. That part was easy and will move into our kitchen as a menu staple. I made my own breadcrumbs for the first time ever—super-rewarding experience. Could it have been better—yes. Definitely. I know what I did wrong and will work to improve the next time. And dear Frank Stitt will find his home in Saturday evening dinner parties. He needs more time. He is not welcome on a school night any longer.

One of the best parts of the evening was Mr. Husband and his entertaining the couples. He was magnificent. He was a social butterfly. He was so good at keeping conversation going and holding the party part down on his own without me who was totally freaked out in the kitchen. I would catch a hurried glance at him in the middle of the social troops and smile to myself. Look at my man! Look at my super husband being super. He saved the evening. My hero always.

He was rewarded with Mrs. Mackles ice cream casserole. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier. This dessert was the most delicious thing ever—ice cream, cookies, caramel. Yumminess. Mr. Husband ate two plates full of this heavenly concoction. Perfect.

Note: all photos taken with an iPhone since I was a hot-mess. See the smoke? Evidenced in the photos.