A legend in one’s lunchtime

I despise hosting lunches.

Sitcom families don’t. Those families have fun hosting lunch parties, even when they do something I wouldn’t do, like bounce meatballs off the walls.

My own family doesn’t chuck meatballs around, but neither are they entertaining. Maybe there really is something to the meatball method.

I had my kid cousin over for lunch yesterday. His name is Clark Gable.

Only joking. He’s called Jimmy Stewart.

Ha! Got you again. His real name is—I won’t tell you for privacy reasons.

Oh, okay. If you really must know, his birth certificate reads Marlon Brando.

Marlon—he’s my cousin, we’re on a first-name basis—and his folks came over for a visit of the gustatory variety.

What this means is that I spent the entire morning making about 10 pounds of salads, side dishes, main dishes, and appetizers only for his family to step through the front door carrying two large pizzas.

My cooking may not exactly be Michelin-level, but I do use fresh ingredients.

Fresh Betty Crocker brownie mix, and fresh Kraft Mac & Cheese.

I don’t understand why people have to insult me by bringing delicious piping-hot pizzas, but there you have it.

It’s always the shorter and younger guests who bring up the idea of pizza. You know they start talking about it in the car.

Marlon Brando (my kid cousin, remember) probably asked his mom what Cousin Alex was serving before she was even out of the driveway.

And she, like a good mother who has attended many a lunch party, would have said, “She’ll try to make baked ziti, but if it doesn’t come out right, we’ll all pretend it’s a casserole and just try a bite or two so she won’t be offended.”

She would’ve been exactly right. Only the baked ziti stayed in the oven because the guests bought pizza.

It was just icing on the cake that I forgot to turn off the oven until after they left.

In between the guests’ entrance and exit, I was obliged to carry on what self-defense experts refer to as a “family conversation.”

This means deflecting any personal or prying questions about what I am doing (writing silly stories for newspapers) and am not doing (curing cancer).

Each question must be batted away like an incoming meatball and yet not hit another guest.

For example, if I am asked, “How much is your salary?” I cannot simply respond “It’s more than your uncle Elvis is making, because he’s been unemployed since 1991.”

Then you notice the kids starting to fall asleep in their mashed potatoes and you try to rope them into the conversation.

Either you find that they’re accomplishing things you couldn’t manage in 100 years, or they provide an answer that doesn’t help the conversation.

“What’s your favorite animal?” I asked Marlon.

“Sharks and robots,” he replied.

“A robot isn’t an animal,” I retorted sagely.

“Kraft Mac & Cheese isn’t food,” he shot back.

After being put through this kind of wringer by my family, I almost kicked the door shut behind them.

I only had about 30 seconds to relax before I heard an explosion.

I ran into my kitchen to find baked ziti plastered over the walls.

I spent the rest of the evening scraping it back into a baking dish.

Next time the guests come over, I’ll serve it as a casserole.