Okay, not really.
My husband, Martin, is more like an absent-minded professor.
You know the type: studious, always reading, forgetful.
Especially at the grocery store.
If he forgets an item, I cut him some slack because despite my spot-on Carmella Soprano, I know her Tony wouldn't be caught dead in a grocery store.
(Unless he was shot while robbing it. Still, not his style: so no.)
Do I remember what I begged my mother to make
for my canapé offering? Gee, I wish I did.
Sorry to say, too much water has gone under that bridge.
My guess: crackers and cream cheese were involved.
Maybe a little jam too.
More than likely, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
were the main course.
You'll be glad to know that, as I got older, I graduated to grander hostessing events. Once I had my extended family to dinner—but left the giblets bag in the turkey cavity. And then there was the time I made a Martha Stewart flour-less chocolate cake. From the looks on my guests' faces,
I guess I didn't use sugar either.
Luckily, only one of my soirées sent a few folks to the hospital. To my credit, it wasn't me who under-baked the ham that my guests were served. That was the grocery store's fault!
And yes, I gave the manager an earful.
Of course, my carpets were full too—of puke.
Then again, so was the hospital emergency room,
where a few of my guests ended up.
Ah, good times…
By the way, if you get an invitation to any of my shindigs,
I won't be upset if you come up with a good excuse to pass.
Be duly warned: you'll miss a helluva party!
