The Relatives Came

Sorry for the silence...

We have been having (as Martha memorably informed George in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?) "Guests...GUESTS!" 

Ours was a somewhat larger, yet withal less pyrotechnically-inclined crowd than Albee's, and the occasion was my mother's birthday.  She won't let me say which one, because at the age of (cough-cough) she is still working and she says that no one she works with has any idea that she has passed the possible age of retirement.  Since I'm a writer, I guess I retired for her - in any event, I have no steady source of paychecks or health benefits in that capacity, although I do have endless available time to drive visiting relatives around to see the local sights,  hit the German bakery in Hoboken for a special eggnog-flavored birthday cake, and select nice wrapping paper for birthday gifts.

The last time you heard from me, Gentle Reader, I was hoping very hard that the Kindly Carting Man would take away the unsightly pull-chain toilet that was adorning the top of the stump where I leave my garbage twice a week before the Guests arrived.  I am happy to say that the Carting Man was Kindly and did so.

The jamboree began last Thursday with the arrival of my cousin Christine, who flew in from Winnipeg with my aunt and uncle, who were to stay in my mother's guest room while Christine came to stay in ours.  Christine was one of my favorite cousins when we were children, and that hasn't changed, although we had not seen each other for many years because we live so far apart.  On Friday morning, my brother arrived from Sacramento and was assigned the living room sofa as his dormer.  He was the Surprise Guest - at least, we hoped he would be a surprise.  It seems that, as soon as we'd decided it was the better part of wisdom not to spring too many family members on my mother at once - in particular, not the ones who would be staying at her house - and agreed only to conceal my brother's attendance at the party from her ("You don't suppose we'll give her a heart attack?" he'd asked anxiously, to which I'd replied that I hoped not, but that if worst came to worst, at least we'd all be assembled for the funeral) she called my brother up, told him all about the party, and demanded, "Don't you want to come here for my birthday, too?"  At which direct question he rather lost his head, foomfled, and blustered, "Uhhh...what kind of question is that? Now if I do come, you won't be surprised."  Which left me, as they say, SMDH and groaning about the fact that I am the only sibling who's ever mastered the art of Lying to Mother.

Christine and my brother were rewarded for their early arrival by a Friday afternoon at Spa Castle in Whitestone, Queens, where we lolled around in the varying saunas and hot tubs and got all pruney before the Big Day.  Since my husband, thankfully, used to be a professional chef, I could relax and take his word for it that everything would get cooked in time for the luncheon party. We finished up with dinner at Elias' Corner in Astoria, where we ate far more charcoal-grilled Greek seafood and French-fried potato chips than was good for us.

The next morning was all about cookery.  When my husband starts thinking about a simple buffet luncheon for 12, this is what he comes up with:

- A 3 lb marinated roast salmon

- An entire braised brisket

- Fresh fettuccine and gnocchi tossed in a cream sauce with roasted garlic, eggplant, red peppers, and wild mushrooms

- Lobster, shrimp & langoustine salad (home-made, of course)

- Sauteed mushrooms & shallots

-An enormous salad of baby greens tossed with avocado, local tomatoes, and a home-made maple balsamic vinaigrette dressing

- Mashed potatoes

- Fresh-baked ciabatta rolls

For afterward, of course, there was coffee, birthday cake, and a platter of fresh berries.

The party was supposed to begin at 1:00 p.m.

At 11:30 a.m. sharp, a car door slammed in the driveway, and, to my consternation, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt, and my cousin from South Carolina all tumbled out of it, looking, to my startled eyes, like the clown car in the circus that never stops disgorging passengers.  We barely had time to take our places.

After I'd hissed at my brother to "Get in the bathroom, get in the bathroom!" I hurried downstairs to greet everyone. After coats were hung in the downstairs closet, I adroitly maneuvered everyone upstairs by shrieking, "Mom! You simply have to come upstairs and take a look at the brand new toilet in the powder room!"

(Note to other potential Surprise Party Throwers: This approach works beautifully if the subject of the surprise happens to be a real estate agent - they will look at anything in the way of home improvement, and not find it a bit odd that you want to drag them away from all their friends and relations to look at a toilet.)

True to form, my mother opened the powder room door with an imperious shove, only to fall back with a scream when my brother, who was seated (fully clothed) on the commode, lowered his newspaper, raised his cell phone camera, and calmly inquired, "Lady, don't you ever knock?"  He not only succeeded in surprising her, he also succeeded in obtaining a photo that is going to be making the family rounds for the next twenty-five years, and that my mother made me swear upon the head of my only child not to share on the social media. (Sorry, Gentle Reader - you would have loved it.)

The party was a splendiferous one, and, having traveled this far to attend it, many of the guests stayed on for a few days afterward.  Which I why, once again, I didn't do my homework.