Dinner impossible

            This month, book club was my turn to host with the most. The last time our little circle met for a meeting of the minds was back in May, so this one was a long time coming. Between out of town summer vacations and cross-country business travel, half of the group hasn't been able to come together until now. But after a two-month hiatus we were all ready for a new read, meeting or not. Following a back and forth with dates a final decision was settled on for this Sunday and the hosting rotation had made its full circle back to being at my place this time. Because I'm the newest member of the club, this was going to be only the second time I've ever hosted since my membership nearly a year ago. And, because I live a bit of a hike from most of my friends who live in the same neighborhood, I normally don't get very many visitors at my place. Typically, when someone in the city lives about a mile or two from you, walking is really the only sensible mode of travel, since cars are not very feasible here. With that being said, it's about a fifteen to twenty minute walk, and in the heat of the summer you don't arrive to your destination in the same state you left the apartment. However, when I do get those resolute souls who laugh in the face of the elements, I pull out all the stops, if I have the time to plan.

            For the past two days I've been running around the city grabbing all kinds of ingredients for the buffet I had planned for Sunday. Some I could find at a local grocery store, others I had to search like a needle in a haystack. This month's book, The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield, is set in Peru and, typically, the host themes the food around the book. For instance, if the characters in the story are written into a scene having a dinner of country fried chicken or pancakes and sausages then that will most likely be the main coarse for our meeting that month. My diet for the last six years has consisted mostly of whole grains, nuts, fruits and vegetables. The only things that I noticed the characters eating were fresh fruits and vegetables. I was in luck. I know fruits and veggies. However, I don't know Peruvian fruit and veggie recipes. After doing some research with Google, I found a few recipes that I could work with and spruce up a bit to cater to the club members' diets and taste preferences. The finale menu: roasted vegetable pot pie, fried plantains, quinoa stuffed bell peppers, roasted corn on the cob, a layered strawberry lemon pudding, white summer sangrias and lime margaritas. I had some work cut out for me.

            On Saturday, after I ushered my last table out the door at work, I jumped on the Q train rocketing towards Union Square to ransack Trader Joes for the bulk of my supplies. Going to a Trader Joes on a Saturday afternoon is a bad decision. I knew better than that but I didn't have much choice in the matter, not having a chance to go during the week. Also, fruits and vegetables have to be bought as close to the time you think you can consume them because they seem to go bad after just two days here. I don't know if they get transported from such long distances that by the time they reach the city they're ripe and ready to eat, or, the fruit and vegetables themselves take on the persona of the rest of the organic matter that reside here, that—take me home or lose me forever—mindset they have going here. Whatever it is, it had to be done then and I had to brave Joe's or give up and just order take-out.

            Before I even stepped into the store I already felt tense for battle. The thing about Joe's is that the prices are rock bottom for the food that would normally cost nearly twice as much at a typical grocery store, because nearly everything they sell is their own brand. Therefore, anyone who can reach a Trader Joe's...goes, and it usually seems to be on a Saturday when the nine to fivers have a day off to go. There have been Saturdays when I've gone and had to wait in line just to enter the building because the narrowly packed store was at full occupancy. Luckily, I didn't have that issue this time, but, as always, I had to move with the crowd, standing shoulder to shoulder, and think fast about what I was doing while I went about my shopping. Everyone who enters with you, you will most likely find by your side the entire time, in line and as you walk out, because there is no space to wander around and read labels unless you're a speed reader. It's just grab and go because you'll get pushed right along to the next shelf or the next isle, ready or not, like a conveyor belt, then get spit out at the end of your shopping experience. You're better off already knowing what items you want and have your mental GPS set to their locations before you even enter the store. Although, this time, I had such a long grocery list in front of me, consisting of a few items I wasn't too familiar with, that I had no choice but to commit the Trader Joe's crime—aimlessly wander the isles in search of these foreign items and read labels. Trying to be proactive, I thought using my cell phone to keep a running list of the items that I needed then deleting them as I picked them up, would be a helpful plan of action. However, as it turned out, it was just another bad idea. I've never once misplaced my cell phone before, but somehow, as my hands had become so full of groceries, it must have slipped from my grasp or I put it down without realizing it. Halfway through my shopping I heard over the intercom: "...Marcy DaRocha in the store please come to the customer service counter." I didn't pay attention to the beginning of the message, but my ears perked up when I heard my name and stopped dead in my tracks. Was that MY name? That can't be ME. I don't know anyone here...at lease I don't think I do. Could it be the raffle I entered the last time I was here? No, they do that daily, not weekly and that would be too coincidental. Maybe I'm just hearing things. It could've just been someone with a name that sounded like mine. Shaking the possibility that the announcement had anything to do with me, I jumped back into the flow of people snaking through the isles like playing double-dutch and continued where I left off. Suddenly, as I reached for my phone, which was at one time in my left hand, it hit me, that WAS my name! I lost my phone! Oh my God! My lifeline! To the customer service counter! Clutching my overstuffed basket, I literally jumped over a person crouched on the ground reaching for an item tucked under the bottom shelf and jet streamed to the customer service counter. Huffing and puffing, eyes wild with distress, the clerk at the counter had already sensed why I was there. "Marcy?"

"Yes! That's me!"

"We called your mom to let her know you lost your phone. That's usually the safest bet that you would get word about your phone."

"Oh, thanks. Good thinking." Crap, my mother is pulling her hair out as we speak, her finger hovering over the 9 to call emergency personnel at a moments notice. After the man handed me my phone I checked my messages and sure enough, two erratic e-mails from my mother. Oy vey.

            If the person who happened to find my phone felt even slightly guilty about keeping it, I think it might have been due to the wallpaper picture of my five year-old nephew, Aiden, looking sweet as pie waving an American flag. It may have been the deciding factor that swayed them towards a more honest and patriotic choice to return it. Thanks Aiden. I should consider changing it to Gandhi or Jesus though. That way I up the chances of getting the phone back if it were to happen again.

            I was able to find most of my items on Saturday but it appeared that Trader Joes was not the end all be all of my crusades. Sunday, I spent the better part of the morning jumping from one store to another purchasing the remaining items on my list. One in particular was the bane of my existence. It wasn't a key ingredient or a necessary commodity, but I thought it would be nice to have corn holders to offer anyone who didn't want to eat like a barbarian. I searched high and low in four different stores for the things when I've seen them a dozen times before. However, no one seemed to be carrying them now that I wanted some. I nearly called it quits after the third store, but decided to just ask the Arab clerk at the counter to save me some precious time. He reminded me of the street vendor that narrated the introduction in Disney's Aladdin, so I immediately liked him. The conversation went something like this:

"Hello pretty woman. Can I help you find something?"

"Hi, yes, I was just wondering if you had any corn holders?"

"Holders?"

"Yes, holders. They're usually yellow with little pins on the ends."

"Pens?"

"No, not pens, pins. Pins with handles to hold corn on the cob."

"Oh, candles?"

"No, not candles, HAN-dles...with pins."

"Pins?"

"Pins."

"Wood?"

"No, not wood. I saw the wood skewers. (Inward sigh) That's alright, thank you anyway."

In my frustration I continued back to my apartment to get started when I spotted a store I had never noticed before, which was less than four blocks away from my place. I walked in and lo and behold...corn holders in all their glory. Figures.

            Back in the homestead, I cranked up the AC and blazed every burner on the stove as it simmered the contents of my tweaked version of Peru's fine cuisine. I peeled, diced and sliced more fruits and vegetables than I can ever remember doing at one time. It was a one woman assembly line of stirring this, chopping that, washing here, wiping there, following this recipe, modifying that recipe all while timing one dish with another. As the AC and the stove battled the war of hot and cold, I battled time and stress as the clock ticked away like the countdown of a bomb. I cooked enough food for at least six hungry adults, knowing only four out of seven members of the club were going to be able to make it. Then ten minutes before show time, one of my guests, who had just flown into JFK on a delayed flight, contacted me to let me know she wasn't going to make it in time for our meeting. And then there were three.

            Though I had enough food to feed a small squad. It appeared that I was going to have plenty of leftovers to last me the next few days. God knows I can't bring myself to throw away perfectly good food unless there was no saving it. Hearing all those stories my grandmother used to tell me growing up, about eating soup consisting of soggy bread and the vegetables they grew in their back yard every night for weeks at a time because they couldn't afford anything else, made a deep impression on me as a child. Even though I've never faced the kind of famish my parents and grandparents faced living in Portugal in those days, my grandmother's face, kissing the stale bread she couldn't eat in time before she threw it away, will always be with me. Either my friends were going to take those leftovers home with them or I was going to put on five pounds in the next few days trying to save it. Luckily, our little trio had ourselves a feast, putting a nice little dent in the pile, and I didn't have to cook for the rest of the week.