Looking back at my blogs, I’ve noticed the majority focus on my favorite night of the week:  Friday.  Friday nights always include my brother and sister in law, and as of late, my best friend, Sassy and her two boys.  If you have read with any regularity, you will note that we occasionally have special guest s, but a regular seat at my table is the toughest ticket in town.  Sassy and I were friends for years before she became a regular.  This is a fact of which she lovingly reminds me.  Friday night is completely sacred to me.  I shut off every stress and care.  There is an entire week of laughter on Friday Night.   It is the one time of the week that I am totally relaxed–at least once dinner is on the table. 

I am going to sound a bit like Nanny McPhee, but there are rules to Friday night.  If you have garnered a permanent seat at the table, you must take the responsibility seriously.  Absences must be few, and you must bring wine.  Dessert helps, too, but it is really the wine which is the glue.  If by chance you get invited to the table, do not decline the invitation under any circumstances.  An invitation to Friday Night Dinner is like an invitation to Fashion Week, you just say thank you and go.  You don’t care which designer you will be seeing, you just go for the experience.  This next bit is tricky.  You see, I will never, ever turn anyone away.  Holidays, birthdays, and other celebrations, I will extend my table to its fullest and add additional tables if needed.  If you need a home for a night, my door is always open and the food is always plentiful.  If you receive an invitation to any given Friday night, it means you are special and dear to me.  Don’t ever take that lightly.

Now that we have established the rules, let’s talk about last Friday.  Sass brought someone to the table.  Just in case you are missing the subtlety, this is a HUGE deal.  She and I have been on our own for a long, long time, and we know each other better than we know ourselves.  When we talk about meeting a quality man, we talk in terms of Friday Night Worthy.  If we don’t think he can make it at or (even) to the table, it’s all over.  Never in the history of Sassy and Cyn has there ever been a Friday Night Worthy Man.  Until now. 

I’m not quite sure she let on to him to the heft of this invitation.  For two weeks, we discussed and dissected and analyzed ad nauseam.  To him, it was just another Friday night with new friends.   To us, it was the dawn of a new era.   In this new era, there is another person at the table.

For a while, my kids thought I was dating someone named Pete.  Not the Pete who is mentioned in previous blogs, but as in “For the love of PETE, would you cut that out???  You are making me bachulya! (ba-hool-ya:  Yiddish for crazy.)”  It’s not really recommended parenting from the experts.  However; it occasionally gets a laugh which causes a distraction from whatever they were doing that was creating havoc.  One of my sons asked me if we could have chicken nuggets for dinner.  “Of course, Darling!  I will be happy to make you free range chicken which has been marinating in buttermilk over night then portioned into equal sizes, breaded with Panko and fresh, toasted coconut.  Would you like an Asian inspired sauce on the side?”  I know that is not what he was talking about.  He wanted chicken from a box.  It’s just not going to happen.   There was a moment recently when I randomly shared my love and pride to my boys.  The response from my oldest:  “I know, Mom.  You are tortured and blessed at the same time.”  Well, with me as their mother, they are tortured and blessed, too.   

Last month ended my mother’s summer tour of the homes of her children and grandchildren.  She takes three to four weeks and travels from house to house, amazing us with her energy and leaving behind impromptu art projects in her wake.  We affectionately refer to this as Judipalooza.  When it was my turn for a visit, I asked my mother what she wanted for dinner on Friday.  Oven-fried chicken.  Not sure why my family is obsessed with breaded chicken, but, okay.  On Thursday, I casually reviewed the menu with her and how many people would be at dinner.  Her response was, “Oh, Honey.  Don’t make chicken for me.  Make what everybody else wants.”  So typical of my mother.  She is a burnt toast kind of mom.  She doesn’t burn the toast, but if a piece happens to be too dark, she will take it and give you the golden toasted piece.  We always made my Dad’s favorite meals and desserts, but rarely for my mother.  All that was about to change.   My maternal grandfather grew up in Selma, Alabama before moving to Cincinnati with his siblings at the age of 16, causing a scandal.  Long story, I’ll save it for another blog.  My mother inherited her love of Southern food from him.    So, Friday morning, Chef Jess, Juan Carlos, and I shifted into high gear.  Crispy, juicy fried chicken, green beans amandine (her favorite), smashed red potatoes, and white chicken gravy.  The piece de resistance:  pecan chocolate tart.  My mother loves Pecan Pie.  It has a history.  The first cup of coffee she ever had was on a date with my father.   They went to Frisch’s Big Boy after a movie.  She ordered black coffee because the pecan pie was so rich, she needed the coffee to cut the sweetness.    My mother was thrilled with dinner.  She started telling my kids stories about her father.  That is exactly the result I wanted.  Not sure how a mother who only thinks of other people ended up with a daughter who is admittedly all about me.  I have one promise, though.  No more burnt toast for my mom.

So about last night…..it started with me being late for dinner with the girlfriends. Really late. Over half an hour late. Let me just apologize to the girls one more time: I’m sorry. I’ll try not to be that late again. Back to the story of why I was late. I got a last minute call from my neighbor for a jalapeno. It just so happened that I had some left over from the Thai One On class earlier in the week. I gladly delivered the peppers and tried to fix a sad guacamole. We blamed it on watery avocados and cheered ourselves with a Caipriroska. For those of you wondering, it is a Caipirinha with Vodka instead of the traditional Cachaca or rum. After the first sip, I knew I would be late. After the second drink, I knew I would be really late.
When the girlfriends go out, it is always, always, always a good time. It’s kind of like the best date ever, over and over again. Maybe even a little better, because you don’t have to be on your best behavior or worry about what you say, or if there is something in your teeth. We are girlfriends. We’ll tell you if there is stuff in your teeth or you need more gloss and less sparkly eye shadow. We decided to meet in Buckhead. The restaurant doesn’t matter. For this particular story, the food doesn’t matter. I’m not going to review, because that’s not what I do. This is just my release and entertainment for the week. Honestly, I’m not even sure of what was ordered. (Remember, I was late—they had already ordered) I think it was in the early nineties when women ordered salads and Diet Cokes. We don’t do that. We eat. A lot. We drink. Usually, a lot. We crave the brisket nachos we shared after a Hal’s Kitchen class. We love the truffle mac and cheese at McKendricks. We don’t order salads. Salads are for lunch. Dinner is for passing the plates and sharing. It’s about being together, what we need at that moment because the restaurant is going to set the scene for the rest of the night. As for the scene, I walked in and was completely stopped in my tracks. Holy wow! My three blonde friends looked amazing! We see each other all the time and at all different times, from 3am to 3pm. This time it was like seeing them in another light. They were gorgeous, laughing, and so into the conversation at hand. To them, no one else was in the room. It was all about being together and hearing the tears and triumphs of the day. The best bit, is that I get to be a part of it, and have a seat at the table.

A few weeks ago there was an article about Hal’s Kitchen titled “She teaches stressless cooking”.  It was a really fantastic piece about how the cooking school got started, why I chose to locate in Sandy Springs, a bit about the SBA process, and a pretty decent photo.  The day after the article appeared was an extremely hectic Friday, but I was looking forward to some favorite guests:  Pete, his wife, Christy, and Christy’s brother, Roger.  I got home right around 6, and as usual, the house was a mess, dinner needed to be started a half hour ago, and they were arriving in fifteen minutes. It’s that moment in time when I feel like I don’t know what to do first:  pick up the massive amount of boys socks that have accumulated in corners or throw some cheese and hummus on the table to distract from the mess or ignore the other two items on the agenda and just start cooking.  Midway through sock and hummus detail, in walks my brother, Pete, Christy, and Roger.  I adore them all, but all I could think of was: how am I ever going to pull this off?

I began serving wine and beer, answering questions about Hal’s Kitchen and trying desperately to put together a timeline for dinner in my head.  I must have looked a bit crazed because Pete picked up the newspaper article, and read the headline and followed with, “Sister Cyndi, it says stressless cooking.  Relax, it’s only us.”   I’ve known Pete forever.  He’s one of my brother’s really good friends.   To him and few other select friends of my siblings, I will always be the baby sister.  It doesn’t really matter if I’ve known you forever, or your family or it’s a Tuesday night and I’m randomly feeding 7 extra kids.  I want it to be good, really good and I want you to enjoy it. I completely understand why throwing a dinner party is nerve racking.  Everybody wants their meals to be perfect, and look like the Food Network.  I get it.  It’s like standing there naked and having your dinner guests assess your, well…assets.

I took a deep breath, and played over in my head what Pete said, “Relax, it’s only us”.  Taking care of the “us” and pleasing them is very important to me because they are important to me.  Honestly, though, they don’t care if dinner is on time or if it is plated perfectly.  They were just glad to be together on a Friday night after a crazy work week in the kitchen with smiles and drinks and kids. Most everyone is like Pete, and Rog, and Christy:   just  happy to have you cook for them and be a guest in your home.   It’s like being naked.  Nobody expects you to look like a picture in a magazine, and they don’t expect it from your food either.