FUNNY TALE: Mother’s Day Buffet

Every year I expect my husband to pay homage to me for the misery and woe inflicted on me for everything motherhood has done to me. I admit, the cards and handmade gifts from the kids always please me. However, my poor husband, whom I blame for my stretch marks, sleepless nights, 20 post baby pounds and all the indignities suffered through pregnancy and delivery; gets no mercy. I expect a deeply meaningful gift, a sumptuous feast and preferably a day of pampering at a spa. Most of the time I get a runny omelet, tepid coffee, a generic card from the local drugstore and maybe a vanilla votive candle. In all fairness, my demands had been transmitted to my husband by telepathy. If he really loves me, and wants to validate my maternal achievements, he should just get it, right?

 After years of disappointments and subsequent Momzilla outbursts, I put my foot down. Last year, I asked weeks in advance for him find a nice brunch and make reservations. He asked around and got a recommendation for a posh hotel about an hour from home. I woke eager for the day, got cute cards from the kids and yet another candle from my husband. Ugh! Still, there was hope. My mouth watered at the thought of a day of eating delicacies, drinking champagne and enjoying beautiful music. Dressed to the nines, including hose which I haven’t worn since they came out with self tanners, I hopped in the car with thoughts of ice sculptures dancing in my head. I had skipped breakfast to prepare for the marathon of gastronomy. It seemed like a good strategy. Unfortunately, when I get hungry, I get carsick. Every curve on the road felt like I was riding a tilt-a-whirl after playing beer pong.

 My reward for not hurling all over myself was that they had lost our reservation. My high-heeled shoe began to tap impatiently. They solved the problem by sticking us smack dab in the hallway that connected two dining rooms. The makeshift table, was in the middle of the traffic pattern to the carving station, not a great place to be.  People tromped by with platters heaped with food. We sat at our sad little table with no waiter, no silverware, no drinks, and no candle. I should have brought one from my inventory. Now, both of my feet were tapping and my jaw began to clench. I could see my husband waiting for my eruption like a geologist studying an overactive volcano. Waiterless and getting closer to a major witch fit, my husband began to prowl for a waiter, or at least a glass of champagne to subdue me. He found no waiter but, began scalping silver, napkins, salt and pepper shakers and even a candle from other tables. The place was such a madhouse, no one noticed my desperate husband reverting to caveman-like hunting and gathering. Having met the basic requirements to start eating, the kids and I started to fix plates.

 Finally the fun part! Eating! My sites were set on the salads and I found them picked over and laying on top of wilted kale and melting ice. Everything I loved was gone. So, off I went to the carving station. I requested roast beef and received a slice 2 millimeters thick. I asked for more. The server harrumphed making me feel like Kirstie Alley after she fell off the weight-loss wagon. The side dishes looked promising. There were roasted baby potatoes and fresh rolls; both things I normally deprive myself of due to the junk in my trunk. I weaved through the masses and sat down to find we still had no waiter or drinks. My husband teetering on the verge of becoming Rambo, charged the bar and demanded beverages and a waiter. Happy that I had infected him with my lunacy, I began to eat the roast beast. The meat had the texture of jerky and seemed to expand the more I tried to chew it. The potatoes were lukewarm and my pretty roll was hard enough to pelt the hoards that repeatedly thumped me in the back while scurrying for their share of the mediocre buffet. Desperate to find a silver lining, my husband pointed out that they had New York cheesecake. I love cheesecake. All could be saved with a flute of champagne and a great slice of cheesecake! My husband got me a piece of the cake eager to tame me. I attempted to take a bite, but my fork would not budge though the cake. It was frozen! This was not the ice sculpture I had in mind. Now I was beginning to feel completely insane. I knew we were paying a king’s ransom to be seated in a hallway, eating a buffet of possible food poisoning while listening to the musical stylings of a warbling singer massacring old Sinatra tunes. I kid you not, she was pitchy, cheesy AND so bloody loud my ovaries shook. Determined to eat my cake, I got inventive. I put the plate over the sputtering candle to thaw the cake. It actually worked. At that moment, the irritation evaporated and we all started cracking up. Believe it or not, it stunk so badly that we all laughed until our sides hurt. I will always remember that mother’s day and hope this year’s plans don’t include another botulism buffet. I’m taking a candle in my purse; you never know!

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2 Responses to “FUNNY TALE: Mother’s Day Buffet”

1. Sara says:

   April 30, 2009 at 5:59 am

   Jen - You completely crack me up! Well told!
2. Jackie says:

   April 30, 2009 at 7:18 am

   Sounds like the meal may not have been very good…but you have a memory and story that you will be laughing about for years!