The Party's Over

The phones (both cell and land – sometimes both at the same time) have stopped ringing, the cards have stopped dropping through the mail slot, the Facebook greetings and emails have ceased, the doorbell’s stopped ringing, and the UPS guy has stopped delivering. My 62nd birthday has come and gone, quick as a wink, so the party’s [definitely] over.

Our tasting menu of a lunch took four hours to eat, because there were so many courses and so much artistically prepared food delivered to our table by the window twenty stories up (overlooking Hartford and the Connecticut river). I lost count after the fourth course (I think there were more than eleven!), because I had to get up and take a walk around the restaurant, to redistribute my mussels, New Zealand cockles, head-on shrimp, and sous vided scallop to make room for more.

By the time our delightful waitress placed the so-called last plate of food in front of me, I was on the verge of tears, because I was afraid that leaving uneaten food on my plate would insult the chef (I ended up bringing it home), who’d stood at attention in his kitchen, cooking up deliciously-creative dish after dish, just for the two of us. I was unable to put one more morsel of food into my mouth, even though Hudson Valley foie gras and duck were staring me in my bloated face. I ate the leftovers for lunch today – and they were still delicious (even though I ate them cold, directly out of the take-out container, without heating them up).

I dried my eyes and watched my husband eat his portion, then I got up and walked around some more, so I’d be able to farci myself like a long-necked goose with a few tastes of dessert. I don’t know how I ate every morsel of the two desserts that were eventually delivered, but I probably managed to stuff them down the hatch because I have a separate compartment inside that opens its gates even after the regular compartments are chock full.

The icing on the cake of this birthday present extravaganza, though, my favorite present of the day (along with my newest commemorative UConn Women’s basketball T-shirt, and 3 Jane Austen paperbacks – which my husband will be reading aloud to me) was the lunch and learn portion of the afternoon. I was invited to come into the kitchen and watch the chef prepare four of our courses. I wish I could’ve helped him cook, too (he said a firm “No! No!” to the idea when my husband asked, because he works alone), but being a watcher still turned out to be a big treat for foodie me (I call myself foodmaven on Chowhound).

I was thrilled to my quickly-filling core to be allowed to step inside his stainless steel private Idaho and watch how a real artist works behind the scenes, because I never, ever slow down long enough to deconstruct or conjure up the origins of beautifully-presented food. I’m so glad I had a chance to stop being my usual little piggy eater self and smell the spices.

I loved watching, because I’m not (darn it) capable of creating culinary masterpieces like my idols, Hartford’s Noel Jones of On20 or world-famous Thomas Keller of Napa’s French Laundry and New York City’s Per Se. I’m a mere recipe-following cook (and pattern-following knitter), which is why my four forays into the kitchen were eye opening and delightful artistic lessons for someone like me, who, once food magically appears, gives it a quick oh-wow, isn’t-this-amazing glance, then slurp…inhales it. (I’m not referred to as Hoover for nothing.) My four instructive trips turned into welcome, concrete mini-lessons that reshaped and refueled my (un)orthodox foodieism.

In case you’re interested, we’re eating leftovers tonight, from the pedestrian dinner I cooked on Monday (eye of the round in special, secret sauce, cooked @ 300 degrees for three hours; a tossed salad with my daughter’s delicious lime dressing, fresh Parmigiano Reggiano cheese sprinkled on top), along with fresh asparagus (even though today’s New York Times food section had an interesting recipe for baking asparagus in parchment packets for an hour @ 200 degrees) and string beans, simply steamed, to perk things up. Oh – what the hey. I’m fancy-foodied out.

May the long time sun shine on you [and] all love surround you.