The good news is that last night’s soiree was a fun, fun time and the food was AMAZING. No, I’m not being braggy—I didn’t cook. I didn’t do anything, actually. This event was a work thing and so it was completely planned out by People Who Are Not Me and also possibly magical wood elves who sprinkled fairy dust everywhere, because I can guarantee you that if I had been the one planning it, we would’ve had a bottle of wine and a bowl of pretzels and someone would’ve been in tears at the end. Probably me. But no, because this was a Fancy To Do, a catering team swooped in and set up an entire kitchen IN MY GARAGE and promptly cooked up enough food for an army of people who are hoping to die with clogged arteries and smiles on their faces.
The bad news is that I am so ill I’m just a whiny, blubbery mess. You know how sometimes you can’t be sick? Like, say, when you’re throwing a big party at your house? And so you take a bunch of cold medicine and put on your happy face and actually have a great time, but then everyone leaves and you fall all to pieces and can’t sleep because you feel so miserable?
Yeah. So, there’s that. I’ll try to keep the whining to a minimum. In fact, I may just go back to bed in a minute here.
Anyway, as I said, there was an insane amount of delicious food, and a lot of people here, and my children (hey, correct me if you were here last night and disagree) were stunning. I mean, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve ever said to them “And I expect you to be on your BEST BEHAVIOR,” and they agreed and then went completely out of their minds, anyway, I would have a whole lotta nickels. But last night they were polite and cheerful and generally made me very proud. Either they’re really growing up or the taser behavior modification is having an impact.
Chickadee got to help one of the folks in charge with a raffle; she got to be Vanna and pull names, which I think she enjoyed. And as Monkey clearly thought he’d died and gone to Cheese Heaven when he beheld the many varieties of cheese cubes, he was dubbed the Official Tester. (Which is nicer, I guess, than saying, “Hey, Mir, your kid’s eating all the cheese.”)
At one point I looked around and realized I hadn’t seen Monkey in a while, and just as I was realizing that, he came trotting in from the garage with a giant bowl that contained a single over-easy quail egg. (The quail eggs were toppers for another dish.) “Hi, Mom!” he called, all casual, as he sat down at my feet. “I just made this quail egg, and now I’m going to eat it.”
“Wait. What? You MADE that quail egg??” He nodded, though most of his attention was on carefully slicing the egg in two with the side of his fork. He plopped a forkful in his mouth, and as I’ve never seen my son eat a quail egg (or even an over-easy chicken egg) before, I said, “Is it good?” He said that it was delicious, and ate the rest.
It turned out that he’d wandered out to the garage to watch the caterers cook, and he was completely enamored of the tiny little quail eggs, so during a lull the head chef had let him crack one and fry it up for himself. This was, to Monkey, just about the most exciting thing that could’ve possibly happened.
When it was all over and the caterers were packing up, I asked if they were taking the leftovers or leaving them. They said they’d leave me everything that would keep (so nice!) and by the time they’d whisked away all of the dirty dishes and everything, my fridge was packed to the gills.
This morning while I was getting the kids their breakfast and slurping Airborne, Chickadee asked what food was left over. I told her that I wasn’t sure, because it was all in white boxes, but that we could investigate later on. And then while rearranging a bit to get to the lunch meat so that I could make sandwiches to pack for lunch, I discovered that in addition to eleventy white boxes of delicious gourmet foods, the caterers also left us a dozen quail eggs.
I don’t really know what to do with them (or how long they’ll keep), but I guess I could just ask Monkey to fry ’em up for me.