Just a nuance, but it's there

One piece of paper will make all the difference at dinner. Written in long hand on personal stationary, tapped into a spread sheet, scribbled on a cocktail napkin with a bartenders borrowed pen: It looms largest in the host's consideration. It will be the document on which the greatest party music was written or the first shot fired at an evening which will go down in unmerciful and memorable flames.

The guest list creates evenings we will never forget, and parties we try not to remember. I write from experience: I didn't get here because I do not have few scars from the great sport of Inviting. My engagement party, owning to the perfect lack of control of one person (who I well knew was careening party-train off course and pleading for a catastrophic drunken wreck), was, for my closest friends, an exercise in grace and meditation over cocktails.

This was an error born of misguided magnanimousness on my part. She is the wife of a friend, and we had witnessed her in action before in a glazed-over state of startled speechlessness, I suppose. I was nervous about her from the start and should have followed my instincts.

In the time that has passed, she is a persistent issue with regard to guest lists and chemistry. In perfect sobriety, she is one of the most deeply miserable individuals I have encountered. I have learned I cannot overcome her raging insults of other guests or her falling down drunkenness in the best of circumstances, but her grotesque bigotry and racism became apparent during that party as well, and she has never been invited back (to say the kindest thing I can of her, actually).

We often say how much we miss her husband. He was one of those people my Brother and I knew first in life and one of the best. But, sadly, this is the way it has to be. Please leave your wife at home is just not an option at the foot of an invitation. And we are years beyond the how did he end up with her? conversation. I do not write his name on lists any longer, I am unhappy to tell you. But it would be better not to have people over than to subject them to this person.

There are other names on guest lists when followed by other names, and still others, that present difficulties in creating a festive night for less obvious reasons than my example. The stories of how some names go together and then must be parted on a guest list are intriguing, fascinating, and sometimes emotionally horrific. By virtue of all that, many are glaringly obvious to the aware host if one gave it some thought. But some enormities of interpersonal conflict could easily be perceived as no greater than a nuance.

Nuance is the key to everything between human beings. As J.M. Barrie noted so wisely in the original text of Peter Pan, "It's not that it didn't matter. It's that didn't make a difference." You have no way to judge how relevant an old story is to those parties now, best to yield a wide berth to a thing that happened, but does not outwardly seem to make a difference.

For this reason, a good host has either the memory of an elephant or the record keeping ability of Thomas Jefferson. The host is the eternal keeper of old grudges and flames, dark facts, circumstances, controversies, occurrences, phenomenons, and statistics. Success at the party which manifests on an enchanted evening from the first scribbled nickname is determined by the grasp of history in the hand holding the pen.

Those are not just names on paper or bodies in the living room; They are mortals. While they bring a world of talents, experiences, and jovial conversation to the mix, they also bring the facts of mere mortality and human nature. An astute host holds a guests' scars as closely as their own and knows the fatal social flaws of all the dinner guests. One misstep, one careless invitation, and the night is laid to waste.

There are just a few people in this world whose hands I will not shake and across from whom I would not attempt to keep down a meal (aside, obviously, from war criminals, murders, savages and so on). I am reminded here of Pat Conroy's Beach Music, "I shook his hand, and I thought it would kill me." I know that ground so intimately.

To have arrived at the conclusion that I would sooner chew tin foil in a locked closet than sit across from one of my known scoundrels, I would have known the reprobate well at some point. As a guest, I am counting on the host to know as much and not to get me into that position. There is an inherent and critical sensitivity to sorting out relationships which have not mended if an evening is to succeed. When these differences are not obvious and the host is innocently clueless is when a guest may quietly beg off on a stomach ache and disappear into the night. Not that it will save the evening, just the guest from an uncomfortable situation.

It is not possible to know all the hot spots, but critical to try and recall that Kate is coming with her new boyfriend and consequently, it is unwise to also invite her ex and his new wife, and/or her gynecologist. If the party is smaller, no one has anywhere to go, conversation is guarded, and the night is a bust. Bring on the grappa, it is sooooo over.

Once all the divorces, bad investments, infidelities, and lies are sorted: It is my opinion there should be an artist, a musician, a pol, a lawyer, a horse trader, an adventurer, a war horse, a dryly amusing Brit, and a siren.

Now, that's a party.

Live simply. Let others simply live.

Tuber melanosporum. Translates to sexy brown thing in Latin and every other tounge.



Sexy dog: He's going to go get the brown thing. Thanks, pal.



Sexy French dog owner/ possible poacher/ believeable sales person.



Little more sexy now?



(Yeeeeeesssss, gimme those!)

Champagne Taittinger, Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs; I think you hear me knocking.

Shaved truffle. Olive oil. Fleur de sel. Taittinger: Don't muck up dinner for two at nine with actual food.

Pant quietly, Gorgeous Creatures.

Thing of beauty: Presenting sangria

Hard not to stare at this glorious sangria presentation I noticed recently at a local tapas bar. A magnificent way to entice the crowd into a perfect summer drink, no?

Featured sponsor

Pottery Barn Kids, my choice for inspired boys bedding

Something like a girl in a pie

On the unexpected: "If possible, I try to plot an evening so that something new is happening all the time. Guests coming in after dinner make a kind of second party. Games, like music are okay if the mood's right. Try to prepare a surprise. It can be the food, a little present in each napkin, a musician in the middle of dinner - never at the start, it wastes the impact - a poem read by a guest, an amusing table decoration - you know, something like a girl in a pie."

- Alexis Gregory, among other fine things, the author of Private Splendor: Great Families at Home, as quoted by Bloomingdale's Book of Entertaining, Ariane and Michael Batterberry (1976, FDS)

What is your dinner party girl in a pie?

The kitchen buffet

Honestly, what difference does it make if you serve the food family style, from a side board, or hanging from a circus high wire in a tutu while ladling gazpacho into shot glasses?

Etiquette texts of the old and dusty school will say absolutely not; get a staff! Alright, in the real world however, the staff often fails to report for duty (I sometimes wonder if they were only pithy imaginary British gents, anyway) and the food has to get from vessel to lips with one hostess and a house full of guests who seem, at least outwardly, capable enough to have read and responded to an invite, and followed directions to the house; therefore being presumably competent to amass food on a flat surface and get it to their mouth without insurmountable obstacle, all the while chatting on about that messy business in Bedford Garden Club (or, er, what have you).

I dare say, it is fine to put the food up on the counters in the kitchen, next to the plates, silverware, and napkins, and allow the diners or guests to fend for themselves in food-serving. There are times, as in the case of the this supper, with food that needs to be assembled to an individuals preferences (menus involving tortilla's and anything, for example), when the food is perfectly graciously - and more effectively - served in a spotless kitchen.

As a rule, the further the plates will move, the smaller they get (to be lap-friendly) and less precious (fewer tears shed over broken pieces). The same goes for the utensils: No sterling sees light when guests may be returning their own plates to the kitchen; to prevent it ending up in the trash by expensive accident. The napkins remain pressed cloth: Not only because paper is so flimsy, but it is eco-conscious.

Put the food out on the counters. Tell them I said so.

Saturday Night Supper Buffet

Tortilla Soup

Spicy Jicama, Apple, Melon, and Tangerine Salad

Carne Oaxaqueno Tacos with Queso Fresco

Green Chili Spoon Bread

Tamarindo Dark and Stormy

Fear of commitment

Spring has come in like a cool lion in the Piedmont; A lion resting tentatively in the yard, sometimes rolling in sunshine, sometimes growling with cold days and rain tantrums. Winter in the shade, summer in the sun, as they say.

I receive text messages on sunny days from friends at the nursery, "I want to buy tomato plants!" Carve some time out of your schedule to grieve for them and replace them, because it isn't time yet. Everyone is ready; everyone, it seems, but the lion in the yard.

But there have been clear signs of a impending spring, however non-committal. Mysterious asparagus have been springing up daily from an ancient garden plot (another gift from my ghost in the gardens). I fell asleep with the baby in the meadow behind the house then woke up only to realize someone was going to have to swath it, (ah-hem, the royal "someone"). And then I was writing to you about Fearrington House (and even as I write to you now, the onions, shallots, and leeks are caramelizing for Mrs. Fitch's savory tart) so, I've been taken with green things, it seems.

Nosing around the back field, I was reminded of the old iron table I found back there. It was left to its own devices seems like years ago. I need to replace the glass top somehow. Tell me where to begin?



Because now I have this beautiful dish ready.



And a table outside would be beautiful with these linens.



Somewhere in the fridge is a bottle of a delicious lemony crisp Sancerre.



I'm ready for the rain to stop and dinner in the yard, I wish the lion were not so afraid of commitment.

Onion, Leek, and Shallot Tart

adapted from the Fearrington House Cookbook, Jenny Fitch (1987, Dell)

serves 8

1 pie crust, partially blind baked in a tart or shallow pie pan

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 pound leeks, thinly sliced, soaked in water to remove sand, dried

3 ounces butter

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 shallots, thinly sliced

1 sweet onion, thinly sliced

1/2 teaspoon salt

freshly ground pepper (black or white)

4 ounces bacon

2 eggs

3/4 cup heavy cream

freshly grated nutmeg to taste

1/2 teaspoon salt

freshly ground pepper (black or white)

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese

1 ounce goat cheese, crumbled

optional: 1 tablespoon fresh herbs

optional: 2 teaspoons butter

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees, brush the partially-baked pie shell with Dijon mustard and set aside.

Melt the butter in a heavy skillet and add the olive oil. Cook the leeks, onions, and shallots over medium-low heat for one hour or until the onions are gently caramelized and and soft, but not browned. Add salt and pepper. Cool. Spread the mixture over the bottom of the pie shell.

Cook bacon until crisp. Drain, chop, and spread over the onions.

Lightly beat the eggs, add the heavy cream, nutmeg, salt, and pepper and stir to combine. Pour over the onion mixture in the tart shell and sprinkle evenly with the Parmesan, goat cheese, and herbs. Dot with paper-thin slices of butter if you choose.

Place the tart on a pan and bake for 30-35 minutes or until golden. Allow to sit at least ten minutes before slicing.

Do not mix warning: Louboutin and water taxi's

I have these recurring nightmares about my beautiful best friends wedding, which is why this bit causes me to write to you in the cold sweat of a girl who remembers being precariously shod and teetering up to a dangerous precipice: In the magnificent venue that is Cottonwood Canyon, Utah, I stood above a narrow rock staircase down which we were to descend in floor length sky-blue shantung gowns while clutching a large bouquet of blushing peonies, and wearing thong kitten heels.




The deep breath I choked on at the top of that canyon, wondering why I ever agreed to a cliff descent in an evening gown and heels while attempting to make a lovely display of a fistful of peonies, has stayed with me. I turned to my girlfriend behind me on the ledge, "I am going to end up in a pile of blue shantung and pink petals at the bottom of this canyon."



"I'm just trying not to hit the peacocks in free fall." She said through her teeth.



Once in a while I come across a story that returns me to that day with alarming clarity. The 2007 Venetian Heritage Gala (held in Venice, by Americans and largely for Americans) was one of those well-intentioned events that held venue over Louboutin's. Against all sanity, there in the city of canals and cobblestone, with the most literally well-heeled guests American philanthropy could hope to assemble in Europe on any June evening, the cocktail hour was held in a separate venue from the dinner at Palazzo Pisani Moretta. After cocktails, the guests proceeded to water taxis and were transported to the palazzo in a boat procession.

I quake at the thought of standing on the hotel dock in black-tie worthy shoes. It is a Blushing policy that heels, evening gowns, and natural beauty do not mix. Were a glass of wine added to the equation for a reveler of that combination, it is the It-girl perfect storm; I am here to tell you, I have seen this girl go head first into the drink in Newport harbor which may sound novel at least as a conversation starter, but was more like a train wreck clad in Givenchy.

When I go to Venice, I take flats and very, very high rubber boots. In an instance of boats and black-tie, or mountains and black tie (someday I will tell you of a mad hatter's dinner high in a mountain peak) consider beautiful low shoes under evening gowns: Have the dress fit to your flats and thank me in the morning.

Photos: Lasocialdiary.com

Hand of a Master: Governor of Tahiti's Punch

Occasionally, for drinks at summer parties, he may prepare a "Governor of Tahiti's Punch" - by inserting a bruised vanilla bean in a bottle of medium rum (Bacardi or Mount Gay) twenty-four hours in advance of the party. When guests arrive, the mysteriously flavored run is poured over crushed ice in champagne glasses and garnished with a slice of lime.

- Bloomingdale's Book of Entertaining, Ariane and Michael Batterberry, (Random House, 1976)

Fit for a rodent

Why, in all those nostalgic European travel posters, does the villager carrying a jug of wine hold a chunk of cheese in the other hand? Because after hundreds of years of unconditional trial and error, Europeans came to understand that cheese somehow made wine, especially cheap red wine, taste better. Like milk in strongly tannic tea, cheese tempers the harshness of the tannin in the wine.

(There's an entertaining tip here. As clever caters have always known, no one will notice the shortcomings of an inexpensive wine as long as enough cheese is served along side.)

- The Wine Bible, Karen MacNeil (2001, Workman)

Wine and cheese have been on my mind because I have had reason to look over a great many cheese displays lately (don't ask, I get my nose into a lot of things, curious as a cat...). And frankly, mulling over cheese displays is a lot more rewarding than insipid Mommy-one-upmanship on the local playgrounds. So, I'm not self-conscious.

Cheese. And wine. Good or bad cheese and fabulous or box wine, what have you; in flipping through the Wine Bible I am now clear on why they go together, only in many cases I very much want them to stop going everywhere together. What a colossal unforgivable mess.

Not one person within my key stroke right now does not know what I mean: These aesthetically disastrous mounds of cubed cheeses on displays which are tasteless cost-club hunks butchered into bite-size pieces of ick with a side of grapes and strawberries. I was able to find hoards of these photos from nearly every caterer with a website. Stop them, this is not pleasing. I mean it, stop it right now.

I imagine this creation must be called "Cheese as Landfill" or "Brie Dunes with Ocean of Pepper Jack" ahhhh, the pure genius... Tell me, what one of us hasn't been there and got the old tie or bridesmaid gown in "periwinkle" to show for it, eh?

Had that absurdity appeared at my wedding I would have stood on a banquet chair, holding up my gown while shrieking and pointing until someone determined I was not wailing at a rodent but, moreover, a cheese display only suited for one.

Now then. Whether you or your cater is serving the cheese, the guests are best served when someone takes a genuine interest in finding very good cheeses and not hacking them up into nibbly bits the night before. Cutting the cheese prematurely and refrigerating it is the surest way for it to be flavorless.

There is a better way: Leave the cheese in large hunks, offer cheese knives and allow the guests to serve themselves; You have now avoided the unappealing cheese landfill display and those mealy hunks still taste like cheese. Which is, I assume, the point of all that cheese in the end.

Don't you feel more serene and happy looking at this shot below? Don't you feel some hope regarding the cheese offered? Doesn't it make you want to eat cheese at parties again?


Other useful hunks of information:

A complete list of agreeable pairings is available at Gourmet Sleuth, but generally, these rules of thumb will get you through the pre-party shopping painlessly:

Pair wine and cheese of the same region together.

Pair salty cheese with sweet wine: Stilton with Port.

Pair creamy cheeses with tannic red wines; creamy, soft-ripening cheese, such as red Bordeaux with triple cream brie-types.

Pair acid with acid: Sauvignon Blanc and goat cheese.

Pair rich cheeses with champagne and sparkling wines.

Remains of the day

This morning I was nursing my butter addiction along side my coffee addiction. After Easter, the butter is the battered remains of a molded lamb. Two years ago the little old lady who made these for all of southern Fairfield county broke her leg and up and ended up in a nursing home just in time for Easter.

I cannot tell you the ruckus that ensued over how anyone was going to be getting any lambs. She would not tell anyone else how to make make the clove-eyed wonders nor surrender her molds. She just slammed shut the door of the whole buttery lamb thing and bid us all keep in mind how critical she was to us.

The next year, a local church in an enough-is-enough-with-your-broken-legged self-importance gesture, ordered a whole mess of lamb molds and doled them out liberally. So, everyone was pretty well-lambed last year, though people still called the Ukraine church and asked for the old girl and her lambs. She was home by then but still not willing to allow the lamb-tending into the hot hands of some bush league butter dilettante who maybe had never even laid shifty eyes on a real lamb and certainly would have no clue as to the spiritual meaning of the thing. Just not a thing for butter putters and the like, obviously.

This year, the lamb lady is holed up somewhere and, likely having heard everyone with a birthday was given a lamb mold last year, is hot, if not downright antagonized. I can only hope she has not begun to mold little voodoo figures out of margarine in hopes of evening up the score.

I digress, but I've been sore about this lamb bickering and subsequent fiasco for three years running. I have to tell you, I just do not want to hear about anymore. I mean, really. Is cloistering yourself with a hundred lamb molds the Christian thing to do? I'm talking my sacred lamb plastic and I'm going home. You are not going to have the old lamb bag to kick around anymore!

I know, I know, let it go. But look, it's a little crazy (hang on while I clean the windows in my glass house, will you?).

Alright. In any event, there I was, half a slaughtered butter lamb (made by my Mama, touche!) and some nut bread and I got to thinking about this pretty set of dishes my Mom used on Easter. I remember them fondly. My Grandparents saved grocery store tickets to get the full set when we were very tiny. This is the blue set, there was also a green. I will say this was about 1978 or so, it is one of my earliest memories.

Can you honestly believe a grocery store gave away something this pretty and delicate? It is, I promise you, beautiful. I understand their diligence in saving those Finest receipts now.

The mark is Myott, England, Forget Me Not, Fine Staffordshire Ware. While it may not have been all that "fine" in quality, it is very fine to the eye. The lambs looked heavenly on them.

An ordinary horror

Theoretically perhaps, I understand how it happens. There is some hazy, lingering memory of being seated at a desk in school while a voice prattled on and on about if-then relationships. Two decades later, I find myself standing in my mothers kitchen and it all begins to make ugly sense.

In one bat of Fatale coated eyelashes, my world goes from something as gorgeous as this:



to this ordinary but unmistakeably grotesque horror.



And it is all hand-wash only, naturally.

Dr. Sanger, my long-ago teacher can take heart, I think I have the hang of it now:

If we make a lovely meal and set the table with good stuff, then we will wash dishes forever.
If we wash dishes forever, then we will have to dry them as we wash, and then Amy cannot go home because she needs to dry dishes forever.
If we hire someone to do all this, then we will be very put out by their presence and be under the gun because they need to leave at a certain time, after all, it is a holiday.
If we go out to dinner, then we will not feel it was a real holiday.
If we get take out, then we really will not feel it is a holiday.
If we use paper plates, then I will be carried out on a stretcher hyperventilating with daggers in my eyes promising to be back and straighten things out drill sergeant-style.

If I have to come back and straighten things out, then that holiday will be talked about in infamy forever.

Easter dinner, in our home, is a lesser meal than the blessed brunch. However, having both on this past Sunday left us with those two huge piles of dishes twice in one day. Which was enough to set me down here before you to ask: How do you get the holiday meal dishes finished?

The making of the Vanity Fair 2010 Oscars Party

Graydon Carter hosted the Vanity Fair, 2010 Oscars Party - a plush and A-list attended event for 700 which included In-n-Out Burgers and cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery - at the Sunset Hotel and Towers: A few shots of the 48 hours before the party as the rooftop Tower Bar is converted for dinner and the after-event party, courtesy of Vanity Fair.

Assembling the wall of Oscar winners.

The photog wall being assembled for post red-carpet ops at the party.

The pool and roof deck as prep began.

The pool, as converted to a dance floor and then covered in the rain.

Entre nous: A First Birthday lunch

My second baby girl has turned one. It seems like yesterday I was writing about an interminable pregnancy, and then finally advising you she had arrived.

We had a little luncheon for her at her Grandmother's this past weekend, thought you might like a peek.

First Birthday Menu

Rocket Salad
Curried Chicken Salad with Grapes and Almonds over Spinach
Assorted Breads
Cucumber Tzaitiki Mayonnaise
Assorted Savory Tarts and Quiches
Cold Roasted Asparagus in Balsamic Glaze
Birthday Cake

Happy Birthday, my sweet snuggly little babe.

Forced casual: The Hostess learns to suck it up

Okay. Okay. I do not adapt well to a lack of formality. Do not ask me why, I think I get it from my Dad. He never approached the kitchen in the morning at any hour without having showered, shaved, and dressed in pressed clothing. Never. And that was just for starters.



When I go away, say, to ski and the cupboards are bare of all serving items I deem necessary on a desert island even for serving heathens, maybe I have a little break with my perfectly resolute state of internal calm (huh.).



Over New Year's 2010, I was pleased (forced) to accept that roasting pans would be used as serving vessels, plates as platters, and any number of other things would occur on the tabletop which I try to tolerate mention of when I receive letters about "letting go" of my "rules" here at the Hostess.



So, here you go, I did what I could to let go, while still preparing all the food, and did not once wish it was a bit different.



Altogether, a fabulous holiday with a ton of people I adore, 14" of powder, one new two-year-old skier, one car that did not make it out of the valley in the blizzard, and love, tons of love.

I laughed. Then I cried.

I regularly discover things at inappropriate times, with regard to everything and everyone. I cannot possibly ask a battery of questions of each new person I meet, nor can I be expected to climb through a fireplace vent and discover what lies within. Or who, for that matter.

The gas fireplace and blower were blasted into life yesterday which damned to hell a legion of stink bugs making quarters in the vent, I can only surmise. I don't know if you have ever incinerated 1000 stick bugs in your gracious living room just before Sunday dinner but I tell you, at least you can stop ogling Grannies new novelty turkey sweater for a few and snap shots of some truly surprised guests.

Yes, I am sure am sorry you missed it too. It was better, and more unexpected than blowing up a fried turkey. Everyone does that now, no big thing, right? But this was spectacular folly.

This is exactly the reason there is a Thanksgiving run-through around here, to work all the bugs out, which has new meaning now.

Alright, so, whatever. It happens. In Bedford where I was raised, the hostess would not let on anything was wrong while her white knuckles wrapped around her glass stem belying her fury at Luis who obviously failed to double check every last thing everywhere. Did they have a sense of humor, or irony? This is Blushing's living room, after all. I laughed for a good five minutes, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Get the champagne, I said when I finally recovered. Fast. Then: No, no, it's for me.

Seriously, I laugh every time I think of it.

Never let them see you sweat, but be sure they know you can laugh.

Pucci Dessert Bar

Yes. You read that correctly. From the ski slopes to the petit fours. One of the most talented event planners in the nation, Amy Atlas, put this together and for a little light-hearted celebration, it is adorable and inspired. Let's say, you wanted to host a killer pretty fete, Amy should be your first call, the folks at Celebrate Flowers, the second, if she is not available.

Wishing you great summer parties!

Or, call a professional

Children, animals, and entertaining; I receive emails on these subjects often always with some version of the same complaint: The kids/dogs are wild and take too much effort when you are trying to entertain. Or, the baby is too young. The truth is that if you suspect the guests would be put out, you already know you need to head the issue off at the pass.

Problem 1: The pitter patter of little feet.

I can relate. When my Daughter was tiny, she slept and we could have anyone in at any time. Now that she is a toddler, she is a whirlwind. At the house in Florida, where we do not have Grandparents to visit, we can ask the sitter to come to sit while the guests are there. Generally, our Daughter eats at about 5:30 and is in bed by 7 pm but the guests do not eat until after cocktails at 7. At all costs, I try to keep to her toddler schedule and regardless of company (whom she visits with only until she is bored and needs to move on); she has her dinner on time usually before anyone arrives. When she is off to bed, her humidifier drowns out the guests’ noise for the most part. Now that we have two, this will be more challenging but I would not think of inviting unless the sitter agreed to work first.

By the same token, for parties including children, I still need the sitter to help play with the children and give Mom and Dad a few minutes to chat and enjoy the party. We set an easily visible and accessible room or the enclosed porch aside for them and pile tons of toys everywhere. A snack table is lovely for them, but the host must be attentive to allergies and hazards.

Problem 2: You avoid entertaining because your house is not clean enough or too cluttered.

First, declutter. There is no reason for it and it is okay to let go. You do not need stacks and piles and storage lockers. Just let it go. Don't let things rule what you can and cannot do in your home. If you cannot do this yourself, call a professional... often. Second, clean. But, you are exhausted, maybe? You work. You care for others. And so on. But cleanliness and order is important for you to enjoy your sanctuary and for hygienic reasons, never mind guests. If you cannot manage, call a professional... often.

Problem 3: The dogs are wild.

Either sequester them or take them to the kennel overnight.

Here is the truth about this entertaining thing: This nonsense about how it is only important that you enjoy the guests is just that.

Your job, as the host or hostess is to see to the details to insure they enjoy their visit. And the hard truth is, a guest who has nowhere to sit or is reeling from the filth around them is not going to enjoy themselves, be a great guest, or be back again; no matter how much they enjoy your company, okay? It is a lot of work and the less you can or choose to do yourself, the more costly it becomes. Know yourself, be prepared for this reality, and plan accordingly by (you guessed it) calling professionals if you cannot manage on your own.

In any event, I beg of you: Commit to getting it right, not to getting by. Be willing to deal with the myriad obligations entertaining creates. Or, call a professional.... and get someone to deal with them on your behalf. As a character of Michael Caine's once said, “‘Easy’ doesn't enter into adult lives."