My Dinner Party with the Characters of Moonstruck

First off, I was careful not plan it on a full moon—too risky.

To set the mood, I have Italian Opera playing in the background, making sure to steer clear of La Boheme, lest the lovers become once again enraptured.

The table is set with no sharp objects, opting for plastic instead of glass and butter knives in lieu of anything sharper, in the likely event the table will be flipped over in a hormonal rage or for simply emphasizing a point.

I planned to have no bread on the table, as it a touchy subject. However, I don’t want to appear like a skimpy host, so I relented and put some out—pre-sliced.

I supply Nick Cage with an additional napkin for his chest hair.

The seating chart caused me many a sleepless night. Pop don’t like Johnny, Johnny don’t like Ronny, Grandpa is likely to bring his bundle of feral dogs—there is only so much bad blood you can smooth over with good bruschetta.

So. I know Pop would want to be at the head of the table, though it was my house. In efforts to avoid his piercing narrowing eyes behind those thick square frames, I obliged. (I also feel like he is the type of guy who carries spare copper piping with him everywhere in case the going gets rough. He’s an Italian plumber after all.)

I put Grandpa at the other end of the table, out of respect. I wanted to show him extra kindness because he himself has proclaimed, “I am old, and the old are not wanted.” Secretly he is my favorite, so I make the clever effort to contradict him. I went to FedEx and had a customized “WANTED” sign made with his face on it and a $1,000,000 price on his head. (You’re worth it Grandpa!) He actually nearly had a stroke when he saw it, perhaps rousing old memories, so I reluctantly took it down. Poor planning on my part, I will admit.

He fed the sign to the dogs.

Cher sat on one side, because she is enough woman for an entire side of a table. I crammed on the other side along with Rose Casterinni, who was sandwiched between Ronny and Johnny Camarerri. She acted as a powerful and calming presence between to the two feuding brothers. I felt confident she would keep the brawling to a minimum, as she is the caliber of woman who can shout, “i'll kick ya 'til your dead!” and mean it.

For the main course I obviously serve Chinese. There was no way I was going to try and compete with Casterinni cooking, a sure-fire way of making myself a sitting duck to the backhanded complements so scathing and subtle. I for one thought it tasted great. I think it was the Chinese flag that I stuck in the Lo Mein for flair that really set everyone off— I just felt credit should be given where credit is due, is all.

As the glances and hand gestures were exchanged, I began to wish I had served something simple, like Canadian food.

Grandpa’s eyes watered. “I’m confused,” he said.

I offer more Chianti. They are all takers.

The Lo Mein really was another bad call on my part. I press on.

A good host knows how to direct lively table conversation among her guests. I knew I had to tenderly navigate away from the subjects of (among others):

Marriage

Wolves

Slicers

Bus accidents

Tart’s named Mona

Bad Luck

City Hall

Death

Longevity of a certain mothers health
Cosmo's moon

Sicily

Pinkie Rings

The dinner went off rather well, all considered, despite the fact that one of Grandpa's dogs got ahold of Ronny's wooden hand and gnawed it to pieces. Regretfully, the whole disaster could have been averted if words, instead of hand gestures, were utilized.

Pop notices that some brownish greyish dog from the pack is chomping away on Ronny's hand, a rather ghastly sight. Pop makes forceful movements with his eyes and hands; he was obviously puzzled.

Ronny, unaware, “What's going on, Pop? I don't know what you're trying to tell me.”

Pop says, “I know you don't. That's the point. I'll say no more.”

“You haven't said anything!”

“And that's all I'm saying.”

By then the dog had all mauled all five digits.

Wood chips were everywhere, and they did a number on my vacuum cleaner, thank you very much.


 I tell everyone to save some room after their fortune cookies for a night cap. Nick and Cher seem to become loose cannons when whiskey is in the picture. 


Everyone's eyes roll as the table flips. I should have known.


Alla Famiglia!

                              VB Family Reunion 2011. Holla.

       City Museum. Before we were kindly asked to leave the roof.

                      Where my Dad grew up. The red brick, oh the red brick.

You Can Find Me in St. Louie

The Van Brunt clan mobilized in St. Louis this past week for a family reunion. It was a great trip filled with appropriate balances of meeting cousins I have never met before, good times, and stress. (sadly, no Nelly sightings)  Over the 5 day period, I had the opportunity to observe a few things about myself that I feel compelled to share now:

1. I am not an easy flier. I absolutely love to travel, so this is an unfortunate discovery. I used to LOVE to fly, actually preferring connecting flights over direct so that I could get double the take off/landing thrill. I think I can trace the genesis of my phobia to a Ryanair flight from Barcelona to France, where the turbulence spilled my drink, caused a few mid-flight screams to burst out about the cabin, and induced a couple passengers to kiss the ground once we finally smacked back down to the tarmac. I have gone up and down with my extremes of fear (which arises from a just such a source) depending on the flight, but now  it appears I have digressed into frantically grabbing an obliging arm when we begin to bounce. (My mom, I am told, does the same. I was filled with mixed emotions upon hearing this news.) My mind goes in all sorts of directions—At certain points, I am even ready for the appearance of Snakes on the motha ‘effing Plane. This is a disturbing realization, and vow to seek help. And please don’t tell me the whole “just imagine the bumps are the bumps on a road” bit. Air is not a road. I can’t walk on it. 

2. The reliance on the shiny world of iphones was in full force for our maps/directions throughout the trip. Technology has given us so much, seemingly fool-proofed the methods of getting one from A to B, but somehow that could not keep the VB caravan from flipping numerous U’s at terrifying intersections. Suffice to say: Stubbornness—she get it from her Daddy.

3. My Grandma Chick is/was a peach. Years ago it would be hard to imagine a more tender side of the red-headed lady who raised 8 kids (7 boys!) and struck terror into my heart as a child. Yes, the woman who was constantly chiding me to “brush your hair!” “sit like a lady!” “don’t drink your water so fast!” just could not understand that as I child I was a boy who liked to gulp down water and spill it down my front. It could be that I have changed (am no longer ragged boy child) or perhaps the both of us, but I genuinely enjoy my Grandma Chick. I saw several pictures of the Irish Italian Gloria Chickey with glossy black hair in a cute two-piece get up playfully swimming with my grandpa Rut in the Ozarks while they were “courting.” She has achieved so much, traveled all over the world, still eats steak, encourages red wine for health, and can swing a golf club with the best of them.

4. I assume the countenance of a monster when low blood sugar hits.

5. I have seen the Promise Land in the form of a world class manicured croquet course, but was unable to taste of its fruits. This is going to take a while for me to get over.

6. Going down a 10 story slide when you are 5’9 is a slow, painful experience.

7. Being modest about ones athletic abilities is surely always a lie. I donned the White’s necessary to play tennis at G Chick’s club, being very clear about my tennis skills, “I am not very good. I have never really had a lesson.”  Family members responded, “Oh! That’s fine. I have not played in ages!” Only to be pelted by spicy mustard-style serves minutes later.

8. I have a huge thing for red brick houses. I caught myself about every two minutes envisioning/practically tasting the lemonade I would be sipping on the porch of my would-be absolutely stunning house. In retrospect, I  see no impediment to me actually doing so. I should have just supplied my own glass and set up camp. 

9. I made a pit stop to Schnucks at 11:30 p.m on a friday night with my parents. Our purchases? A rotissere chicken and grapes. It's really not what you think.

10. I love love my family.  And things have gotten so much easier since the days of loading up our van and using a spray bottle in lieu of AC. 

                               Lemon Ricotta Pine Nut Tart                ...Yummmmmmmmmmmmmm