Blue Jean Chef

I think it was a sign that perhaps I was eating too much. I was standing in a buffet line, eating what was already on my plate in order to make room for more. As soon as the deviled egg passed my lips, I knew I was in trouble. I turned to [...]

I think it was a sign that perhaps I was eating too much. I was standing in a buffet line, eating what was already on my plate in order to make room for more. As soon as the deviled egg passed my lips, I knew I was in trouble. I turned to the woman behind me in line.

“This is not a good sign,” I said, stuffing the perfectly cooked egg white with the creamy, mustard-yellow center into my mouth, and continuing down the line.

She just looked at me as if I was from Mars. I was beginning to think that she might be right.

This incident has haunted me ever since it happened, and I feel the need to revisit the situation. I had been invited to a wedding shower, which rarely happens. The organizer of the shower had set a theme for the occasion. We were to wear 50’s style aprons and a strand of pearls, and bring retro American food dishes. In short, we were to do our very best June Cleaver imitation.

I pulled out my strand of pearls, a twenty-first birthday present from my parents, and managed to find an apron that looked as though my grandmother had worn it, even though it was barely two years old and came from Anthropology. The other guests looked more the part than I did. They wore frilly aprons and body snug dresses in floral patterned fabric. They told stories about what it was like when they first moved in with their husbands – how all the husband’s possessions ended up in the basement as they did their best to break him of old habits. I felt out of place – no frills, no dress, no husband. It’s not that I wanted any of these things – I didn’t and don’t – I just felt like I was on a trip to a foreign country with no knowledge of the language.

I have to say, the girls did a tremendous job with the decorations and setting up the buffet line. Laura showed her artistic talent with two beautiful flower arrangements. Linens in pink and green were thrown over the counter with boxes underneath in strategic places to give the buffet variance in height. Shimmery material (what is that stuff called?) accented different areas of the buffet line. Bows were tied; streamers were hung from the ceiling. Me? I contributed. I blew up a balloon. It was a really hard balloon to blow up – one of those long balloons that street performers make into the shape of a poodle for children. The girls were impressed that I managed it, and gave it a place of importance – sticking straight out of the table centerpiece flower arrangement.

The ladies also outdid themselves with the food. There was macaroni and cheese (Liz’s “world famous”), very bourbon baked beans, tea sandwiches cut into shapes, potato salad, two different quiches, a neon green Watergate salad (cool whip with pistachio pudding and chopped fruit), and those damned deviled eggs. Paula brought punch. It swished around appropriately in a punch bowl, and floating in the punch was a huge decorative block of ice with fruit frozen trapped inside. As the ice melted, the fruit was set free into the mixture of juices. I had contemplated spiking the punch, but had thought better of that when I realized I was already out of my element by just attending a wedding shower, and didn’t need to alienate myself any more. Besides, this was a mature occasion, a rite of passage, and not a time to revisit younger days. For dessert, there was a pyramid of frosted cup cakes, all tied together with ribbons and with a plastic bride and groom stuck in the top. There were also some Rice Krispie squares, but these ones were made with peanut butter flavored Captain Crunch instead of Rice Krispies, which I suppose made them “Captain Crunch squares”.

It didn’t help that I was hungry before the shower started. I had been trying to wait patiently for the moment when someone would finally go up to the buffet line, like a racer waiting for the starting gun. I have a huge appetite, and besides, I’d spent a lot of energy blowing up that balloon. We raised our glasses of punch in a toast to the bride to be, and then one brave soul pushed her chair back and headed to the pink and green counter. “Bang” – we were off! I felt excited. Why? I think it had everything to do with what foods were there. Foods that I rarely ever see in front of me.

Generally, I try to monitor what I eat. I don’t particularly want to work out all the time, so I watch what I put into my body. Not too much fat; not too much sugar; not too many carbohydrates. Waffling between all the recommended diets, I just try to be moderate with all the so-called food sins… well, most of the time I try. When I looked at that buffet counter, however, I saw no moderation. Everything was high in fat, high in sugar, and very high in carbs. What could I do? My mother always taught me to be polite. People had brought this food and I felt it only showed a good sense of etiquette to try everybody’s dish, even that neon green cool whip salad (despite much trepidation). There was no getting around this one – I was going to have to throw caution to the wind and forgive myself for breaking all my self-set rules. I pushed forward with courage.

I started piling foods onto my plate. Macaroni and cheese, a smoked salmon tea sandwich in the shape of a “C” (in honour of the bride-to-be’s first name), a cream cheese on cinnamon raisin bread tea sandwich in the shape of an “O” (probably the center of another “C”), a deviled egg, a piece of quiche Lorraine, and some of that futuristic green cool whip “salad”. My plate was full, but when I looked down the line, there sat the bourbon baked beans in a very hip turquoise cast iron pot that must have started its life in the 50s. Where was I to put the baked beans? The plates really were too small. The answer was obvious to me at the time – clear room by eating the easiest thing to pop into your mouth, the deviled egg. In retrospect, I probably would have been wiser to scrape the Watergate salad back into the serving bowl and fill its space with the beans, but again, etiquette got the best of me. Sort of. Down went the deviled egg. Then came the foreign gaze of the woman behind me, who was seeing a Martian for the first time. It was too late. I couldn’t take the egg out of my mouth. That would have been rude. It’s not easy to smile with a deviled egg in your mouth, but I did my best and moved on to the baked beans.

The food was tasty. I felt free. I felt like someone walking to their dead-end job when a flurry of hundred dollar bills gets suddenly dumped on them from above, jumping around trying to grab as much money as they can. I felt like a baby bird in a bird bath on a hot summer day. Fun – I was having a lot of fun in this foreign country. I didn’t hold back, but had another piece of quiche – it was sitting right in front of me after all, and I hadn’t tried the spinach and mushroom quiche yet. “Shiitake mushrooms? Really? Wonderful.”

I think it was around that time that I started to feel full.

“Who wants a cupcake?”

Again, I heard my mother’s voice “Be polite.” Now, I blame the other guests. They forced me to indulge in a cupcake. Truly. Most of the other girls said “No thanks” to the offer. It was getting awkward and I was feeling anxious. Someone had to have a cupcake. I didn’t want to hurt Jeri’s feelings. She’d put all that work into making the beautiful cupcake cake. True, she wasn’t actually in the room when the cupcakes were offered up, but surely she would find out that people hadn’t eaten her cupcakes. In true sacrificial mode, I said “Sure, pass one over.” I couldn’t contribute to the husband stories, but I could do my part in making this shower a success by eating the food everyone had brought.

It was around this time that I started to feel ill.

Here’s what I’ve learned. You can go back to a buffet line. You can fill your plate with small portions of everything, or, if you’ve over-filled your tiny plate, you can go back to the buffet and get those things you missed the first time around. I continued to feel ill for the rest of the day. I made it home and before I knew it, dinner time rolled around. It is not like me, or anyone in my family for that matter, to miss a meal, no matter what. Still, I had committed great sins that day. Surely, I needed to repent. I was coming down off my sugar high and was starting to feel depressed. I could have bowed down and prayed to the porcelain god, which I think is what June Cleaver must have done in order to fit into those dresses, but that’s not my style. No, I believe in a forgiving food god. I had learned my lesson and swore to behave differently at my next buffet. I was forgiven. I had a bowl of cereal, a cup of tea, and went to bed wiser than when I’d woken up.