Moose in the Kitchen

On Friday, the stove was delivered. On Saturday, it got hooked up and we learned that, with a flick of the wrist, we could set someone’s head on fire. On Sunday, we had a breakfast party where we served mimosas (orange juice optional) because heads go up in flames faster if they’re doused in alcohol.

No one’s head caught on fire. But we did get to cook a pound of bacon at a time. And impress friends with the gentle whoosh of the flame catching the gas.

Parties tend to bring out my high-strung tendencies. To be perfectly honest, LIFE brings out my high-strung tendencies. I’m not proud of this. Lately, I’ve been playing the I Don’t Want To Be That Person game. Maybe you’ve done it too. Where you find yourself walking around with an eyebrow-searing scowl on your face. Or inform someone of their failings in an octave previously unknown to man. Until you realize you fall straight into the Homo Sapien genus Grumpy Shrew, and do you really WANT to be a grumpy shrew? Without being paid for it, I mean? That’s what I thought. So I do the “do I want to be this person?” self-check and attempt to go about my day with my porcelain brow unfurrowed and my vocal range set to “seductive and throaty” rather than “aggrieved and piercing.”

My newly-minted safety net got strained on Sunday morning. It started out well. I don’t want to be the person who gets so frantic about people being in her house that she spends her entire Saturday scrubbing baseboards, just in case someone should crawl behind the desk to lick the wall. So I played blase, realizing with my newfound maturity that needing to impress your guests with spotless baseboards leads only to unhappiness. All party preparations were blissfully stress-free.

Until an hour and a half before guests started to arrive. (You knew that was coming.)

At precisely 9:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, I decided I wasn’t as blase as previously believed and became somewhat frantic with the cleaning. And handing out chores to the person who was already making all the food and doesn’t really care about the state of the dust bunnies under our bed, thanks.

I got over it. With the help of cheap champagne and one of these:

Pastry monsters: guaranteed to make your day just a little more awesome.

All were forgiving of my frazzled hosting style (bless you) and took over with charming stories of Singapore and blood-thirsty roosters. And nothing caught fire. I might be a little disappointed about that.