Day of the Party, June 8:

Oh, wait. Back up a minute. I almost forgot one very key bit to this dandy story.

The one part in this whole debacle where I–not the CW’s–royally jack things up.

Night Before Party, June 7: I’m not sure what to worry most about–the realization that cocktails and appetizers are now on for 18 people tomorrow or over the gumbo stock that’s still lacking that sumpin’ sumpin’, you know?  Or have I tasted this stupid sludge so many times that my taste buds are dead?

I can’t do anything about the appetizers today and I’ve spent an entire lifetime on the gumbo, so jambalaya it is. Chop mountains of mirepoix (the cajun trinity–onions, celery, bell pepper). Cook. Brown Andoille (hot!) sausage and chicken pieces in 6 separate batches (and yeah, that sucks). Add the rest of the mess o’stuff and bubblebubble. Set timer.

And then I hear an alarmed howl from the bathroom.

In case you’ve lost track of the timeline, we arrived home from Mexico on June 1.  It is now the evening of June 7 and unbeknownst to me, one of the Minxes hasn’t taken a poop in like, 12 days. What can I say? I do not keep a flow chart of their bowel activity. If someone’s plugged, they’d better speak up. Otherwise, not my deal-e-o.

Until it is. It is my deal-e-o because a Minx has just tried to flush a turd the size of the Hindenburg down our toilet (our $1,000 Toto toilet that the plumber swore would flush a human head, mind you) and now we are rafting down the Ganges Shit River.

Maybe a more mentally stable person could remember jambalaya for 18 while dealing with Shit River. I’m not one of them.

Many plungings and cursings and Clorox-heavy moppings later, I smell something. And it ain’t Clorox and it ain’t Shit River. I smell dead jambalaya. Attempts at CPR fail.

I call my husband but he doesn’t understand the hysterical gobbledygook coming out of my mouth. He tells me to take a shot of hard liquor. I consider consuming the entire bottle, but I settle for a shot and finally blurt out what I’ve done. I think he’s almost tempted to laugh but I have been a right bitch for seven days, people and he knows better.

And then, after I’ve cried and ranted and shreiked, he tells me to calm down and says the three most beautiful words in the English language: “Fuck ‘em, honey.”

He gives me the phone number of a barbecue/cajun restaurant in town and tells me to beg. Jambalaya for 18. Tomorrow. Maybe?

The person who answers the phone is a woman, and just hearing the voice of a woman makes me start crying again. I tell her about Shit River. I do. It’s awful and it’s embarrassing but she’s a woman dammit, and I know that the Dealers in the Shit Department are primarily of the feminine persuasion.

She cracks up.

She also feels deeply sorry for me so she says, “No problem. Pick it up tomorrow at 6pm.”

Cry. Pass out.

 

Day of party, June 8:

Work gumbo wizardry. Shop for appetizers. Again. Begin cooking appetizers. Realize that crab-stuffed cherry tomatoes for 18 is ridiculous fuckery and I have clearly lost touch with reality by thinking this was an okay idea. Call friend, beg for her servitude for two hours.

My friend arrives with wine in hand. Bless her. I call my husband and ask him to pick up the oysters on the way home from work and my friend and I begin idiotic tomato-stuffing. Thank God we have oysters, because stuffing cherry tomatoes is a time suck.

Husband calls from local seafood shop. Oysters are here, but the owner–who has been out for several days (eg: all the phone messages)–is still out. The grunt working behind the counter hands him a bag of 4 dozen un-shucked, un-ready oysters.

I don’t really have the tools or the manpower to shuck 4 dozen oysters now, do I?

Apologize to friend. Run to grocery store. Shop for backup appetizers.

Call one of the charlatan whores nice ladies and say that the cocktails are out of my hands–someone needs to pillage the liquor store but it’s not going to be me.

Purchase and prepare backup appetizers. Smooch friend. Pack up to leave. Grab 2 large Dutch ovens and stash in car so I can conceal Jambalayagate. Call husband to remind him to bring jambalaya to the Bullied Woman’s house.

“Hi, this is Bullied Woman. Ummm, the alcohol delivery just arrived and. Um. The champagne? It’s six buck chuck. I don’t think we should serve it, do you?”

FUCK.

Get ride to Bullied Woman’s house because I’m deathly afraid that the steaming cauldrons of gumbo will spill in the car. They still do. In my lap. All over my apron and clothes. Apologize profusely to Bullied Woman’s husband who has kindly given me the ride.

Arrive, reeking of gumbo. Arrange appetizers. Deny offers to replace/launder clothing.

Take one look at the stealth jambalaya that my husband has delivered and realize that something is very, very wrong. There’s enough stealth jambalaya to serve about…6 people.

No way.

Time: 6:10. Guest arrival time: 7:00.

Tell husband to “haul, ass, dammit!” and race to grocery store. Bolt through the grocery entrance in gumbo-wrecked apron and clothing. Grab the first thing we see–big, fat, crowd-sized pork chops. As we’re running with the pork, I hear, “Dana? Hi!”

FUCK.

I whirl around, covered in gumbo and tears, and there’s a woman from my neighborhood, pushing a cart and looking alarmed. It’s Annette. Thank God it’s Annette, because she is kind and puts up with all of my heathen ways, but I bark at her. “NotnownotnowsorryIloveyoubutNoJesusfreaking****canIstoprightnow.”

As we’re driving home from pillaging the pork aisle, I get a call from Bullied Woman’s husband. “Hi. Ah, how do you want these appetizers assembled?”

Time: 6:42.  And I’ve left poor BW and husband high and dry, wondering what to do with the appetizers. I bark orders.

We arrive and scramble, guests arrive, we sling pork and serve Asshole Jambalaya on the side, and somehow, dinner happens. I’m flinging salad, my husband gets the spice rub on the pork, BW’s husband grills them (perfectly!) and my gumbo-riddled ass remembers absolutely nothing about those three next hours. I talked to people, I think. I know I cooked and assembled and served. But I. Remember. Nothing.

I consider it proof that maybe, just maybe, there is a God.

 

 

 

 

 

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