I refuse to believe that my days of trash-talking the Giants and making fun of my father for being a Giants fan are to blame for the Patriots having screwed up royally last night. Hey, I’m not the one who let all those guys hit Tom Brady. Though I’d sort of like to hit Tom Brady, myself, now.
Preferably in the knees. With Bill Belichick. But whatever.
We have various “posters” (the kids spent half the afternoon making them) cheering on the Patriots all over the house, still, and the children—who went to bed at halftime—ate their breakfast in glum silence. “But they were WINNING when we went to BED!” they protested, as if perhaps the Patriots’ loss was a cruel joke I was playing on them. I put brownies in their lunch to ease the sting.
And no, we’re not Rabid Football People or anything, but given our recent move we rather considered ourselves ambassadors of Patriots Cheer. We were prepared to show the south all that New England has to offer!
Apparently all New England has to offer is… ummm… oh! We have good food!
We had a party here, you know, so that we could celebrate the Patriots’ perfect season…? WHATEVER. We drowned our sorrows in a medley of excellent foods, and there may have been some beer involved, so the night wasn’t a TOTAL loss.
Otto makes this smoked buffalo chicken tenders… THING… that has no proper name. We just call it Chicken Crack. (As in, you will be unable to tear yourself away from the dish.) So he made a big mess of Chicken Crack, and I tried out this recipe I stole from Karen to whip up a crockpot full of chili, and OH. MY. LORD. I shall never go back to my old chili recipe. It was AMAZING. And then, of course, we had to have some Bean Crack, as well, and I made that with veggie crumbles instead of meat (because we had vegetarians coming, lovely people who will never know the ecstasy that is Chicken Crack). And then, of course, we had various chips and cut veggies and stuff.
Our guests provided a whole ‘nother layer of munchy goodness, including (but not limited to) homemade hummus that would make the Baby Jesus weep with joy, chocolate chocolate-chip brownies, buttermilk pie, and more alcohol.
The various children ran around upstairs and came down long enough to eat chips and pretend to eat something more substantial until whichever mother was present would agree to let them have dessert, and then they ran back upstairs again.
At one point I went up to check on them, and Chickadee was leading two other little girls in a nice, quiet game with the dollhouse… and Monkey and rest of the boys had all squeezed into a foot-wide section of space between the couch and the wall. There were four of them crammed into a space approximately Monkey’s size. Apparently you do not have to be a clown or in a fraternity to feel the urge to stuff a bunch of friends into a tiny space, just MALE. They were all giggling madly, which I thought was pretty impressive, given that they couldn’t actually breathe.
There were no injuries, which was nice, because it meant that we adults were free to continue eating and yelling at the television.
Half our guests left at halftime, and the remainder trickled out thereafter, and so by the time the game ended, only one guest was left. After he went, Otto and I spent about fifteen minutes cleaning up, during which time my father marveled at how well we worked together and how quickly we were able to put everything to rights. It was a proud, proud moment for me, because of all the major life accomplishments of which I am proud—college, grad school, getting published for the first time, giving birth to two extremely large-headed children—it’s a tender time in a girl’s life when her daddy fully appreciates just how adept she is at putting leftovers in the refrigerator. Despite my disappointment over the Patriots’ loss, I’ll always have these warm memories of my dad’s admiration of how I loaded the dishwasher to cheer me up.