“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”

“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”

I saw this defiant declaration on a package of dried cuttlefish once. I think it was in Hong Kong. Maybe Tokyo. No matter. What I like about it is the proclamation of identity, like when Hymie says he wants to be a dentist and not a toy-making elf. (If you don’t know about Hymie then you didn’t grow up in the US during the 1960s watching a lot of t.v.; if you did, you’ll likely remember not only Hymie but also the commercial where Santa rides the triple-head Norelco electric shaver over the snow banks.) Unlike Hymie, my realization about my identity did not come after much soul-searching or elf angst. I just had a slap in the face last weekend that made me declare “I am a not a Hostess! I am just a Cook!”

Last Saturday, I attempted to cook what I had hoped would be a fabulous meal for eight. It fell, in my estimation, terribly short. I planned what I thought was a good seasonal menu. Fresh shitake mushroom duxelles in crispy won-ton cups to start; curried Dungeness crab salad on a chiffonade of Romaine with diced apple, fennel, and celery as a first course; duck legs with sour cherry sauce, pureed turnips, and wine-braised lentils for main; and, finally, chocolate cinnamon pot de crème for dessert. Too ambitious a menu, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps. But I am pretty good at doing things in stages, preparing my mise-en-place, cleaning as I go, so that a big menu doesn’t usually overwhelm me. What overwhelms is the people.

I think I have performance anxiety. I can't do the big group thing. Too many people to worry about, too many expectations to meet (or so I think), and I get too stressed out trying to make it "perfect." I have not managed the effortless, charming hostess thing where, with grease-stain free clothing and hair styled into something more chic and age-appropriate than a high ponytail, you float about chit-chatting with your guests, pouring libations, and handing out canapés. I have not achieved the bodhisattva state of entertaining where the hostess radiates the calm and good vibe that then puts everyone into the happy party soup. I haven’t even realized the shortcut to creating the perfect party: plying yourself and others with many martinis.

No, I was too anxious. Trying too hard. And as a result I was not in the zone. While the mushroom appetizer was good, I didn’t plate enough of the crab salad, the turnip puree was watery, the lentils under-salted, the duck legs too dry, and the pots de crème a little grainy. I wasn’t paying attention to the food; I was scattered. Funny, though, everyone who was here said they loved the evening and thought it was warm & cozy. I already know the big take away here: entertaining isn’t about the food, it’s about how people feel and relate to one another. But dammit, the way I try to show people I care about them is by making a nice meal and if it doesn’t come out well, then it feels as if I haven’t shown my guests proper care. People can tell me they had a good time at my dinner but if I feel like the meal wasn't really good then I don't believe what they've told me. Yes, I know that’s twisted and dismissive. (Where's Dr. Phil when you need him?)

During the week I made some amazing meals for others when I didn’t feel like I was having a DINNER PARTY. I was just making dinner. I was just a cook, not a hostess. So maybe I need to trick myself into thinking it’s just a meal. But, to be safe, I think I will limit my dinner guests to four. At least until I get some therapy.