Après Silvestre

After the cheese fondue—nearly three pounds of cheese melted and scooped up with chunks of chewy ciabatta loaf and rinsed down with a lovely German Gewürztraminer (Bloom)—and the company of good friends; after the decadent princess torte from Hoffman’s, with its layers of delicate sponge cake, cream, and marzipan; after the bottle of bubbly from Château Ste. Michelle and the fireworks, the kisses and hugs; and after the late night punctuated by wandering children, cats and neighbor’s fireworks, you would think that we were done with revelry.

But no, we woke to greet 2008 late and lazy, and after a leisurely photo shoot of matching Hanna PJs and cute family toes, we headed to the kitchen at an awkward hour: far too late for breakfast, way too early for lunch. Luckily, New Year’s day and the leftovers in our fridge work well enough together. We pulled out the cut loaf from last night and melted the last bit of cheese, then uncorked the leftover champagne and had ourselves a brunch fondue.

Stymied by the leftover cake—cheesecake, angel food and princess—we invited one more friend over in the afternoon to help take care of it. We melted some chocolate in the fondue pot (easy, since it was already out). And thoroughly decadent.

We slide into our “normal” routines tomorrow, the boys to work and school, myself to the pile that has accumulated on my desk over the past two weeks. That means a healthy supper and early bedtime, for we must rise before the sun tomorrow. Needless to say, no one was particularly hungry after the melted debauchery, but a quick toss of broccoli and carrots in some garlic and oil over some leftover brown rice went over well, and should get us back on track for living not only well but right.

The Momosaurus

Number One is having his first teenage birthday party. We decided to deviate from the one-year, one-guest rule, and limit the number to a select few, but expand the party’s cool factor by making it an overnight with movies and soda and such.

As I walked the aisles of Trader Joe’s (hey, it may be junk food, but it’s good junk), I loaded in two six-packs of soda. I wonder if it is enough, and load in another. Ditto the tortilla chips and guacamole, hot dogs and buns. Cheese doodles, gummi worms, and popcorn round out the offerings.

But if I’m having trouble estimating how much these budding teen boys will eat, it’s not only because of my relative inexperience with teen eating machines: there’s the issue of the guest list. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, my Grandmother, a Socialitaurus, handed me a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette. It contained all sorts of dated information, such as how much household staff I would need, and how long a woman was expected to wear her widow’s weeds. I gleaned that in times of war, one could dispense with the inner envelope for formal invitations. And I read all about writing an rsvp. There were only two possibilities: one, you could write a thanks for the invitation, but regretted you would be unable to attend. No excuse may be offered, just thanks and regrets. The other choice was an effusive thank you, expressing delight at being able to make it.

My Mothersaurus explained that while the information appeared dated to the point of laughability, I should keep in mind that etiquette is at its heart about treating people with kindness and respect. An rsvp served to let the hostess know how many plates to set out and how much food to prepare—and wouldn’t it be unkind as well as the epitome of rudeness to leave her guessing?

Number One invited six friends, with the understanding that one would not be able to stay the night. Two mothers responded, promptly, with a thank you and we’re delighted to be able to come. Then the others chimed in the week before the party: One Child would be able to attend only a couple of hours, until which time he had a another birthday party to attend, he explained; Another Child wanted to attend the other birthday party as well, and was planning to come here, go there, then return here afterwards. And the Third Child called on the day of the party (after the wheat-free birthday cake had been baked to accommodate his dietary restrictions) to explain that he would be, “one or two hours late.”

I so want to make Number One’s party special, for him to show his friends how cool he and his folks are (we’re even shipping Little One off for an overnight elsewhere to remove the uncool pesky little brother syndrome). Call me a Momosaurus, but am wondering what dear old Emily would think. Instead of choosing one invitation and honoring the host, I’m not sure that our guests realize that opting to run back and forth between parties may leave both hosts feeling slighted.