As my friends know, I am a perfectionist and detail-oriented. I was so slammed this past week but still had to squeeze in the dinner with Mom’s posse. I love these ladies and always enjoy their company — such a hoot!
I had carefully planned the menu for this little soiree. My gastronomic offering consisted of Baked Mahi Mahi Alaskan, Green Beans Almondine, Rice Pilaf and a Pistachio Parfait for dessert. And copious amounts of vino, natch. Well, I had prepared the rice and also the topping for the Mahi Mahi and both were out in separate bowls on the counter. Well, I’m TRYING to have a few minutes to myself for a quick “fluff ‘n buff” when my Mother the Parrot inquires as to what I put in the rice pilaf? I asked, “Why?”. She said she didn’t like it at all — NOT AT ALL!
She was all “up in my grill” and got a little Chef Ramsay on my azz.Horrors…guests were arriving in an hour. I was so pissed. I stomped into the kitchen, exhaling loudly, muttering expletives about “being a freakin’ Cinderella” and grabbed a box of sodium-rich Rice-a-Roni to create something for the parrot’s obviously more refined palate.
The Parrot strolls in and her eyes get real wide as I’m schlepping at the stove with a shiny “t” zone, frantic over the damned pilaf situation. And in a very nonchalant manner, she announces that she had mixed up the fish topping with the rice pilaf! No wonder the “rice” was “tangy”!
But I was committed now and said that we would be pushing the rice pilaf tonight as an appetizer, main course, and dessert. We now had enough rice pilaf to feed a Third World country.
Dinner was faboo regardless and me and my oily “t” zone were apparently also the floor”show as it was requested that I also entertain my guests. Shit, I was now like one of those kids with the bottle caps on the bottom of their shoes that tap dance for tourists in the French Quarter — but they actually make money so that makes me REAL pathetic. I tried to strike a deal, always going for the close, suggesting that “Liberace the Parrot” tickle the ivories a bit first and THEN I would “rock” out. No go…
Taking a quick inventory of the atheists in the crowd, I decided to perform “One of Us” by Joan Osborne. The posse was well lubricated (that sounds bad) from consumption of the grape and I think someone threw their bra at me. OMG…I hope it WASN’T my mother! That translates to years on a psychiatrist’s couch for moi!. Some even offered to be my groupies.
I autographed a breast and The Parrot’s peeps rolled out as I cleaned and douched the entire house — to the sounds of my mother jamming out on the piano like she was the headliner on “Diva’s Live.” Go figure.
Well, I’m going to serve dinner and plan my wardrobe for my trip to the Windy City tomorrow. I don’t know what it will be just yet, but chances are we’re serving Rice Pilaf.