My dad throws dinner parties with kaleidoscope colored hors d'oeuvre platters and it-ain't-just-for-rappers-Kristal every day of the week that ends with "Y." Why? Because he likes to partay.
Or, ahem, fine dine with his middle-upper-to-the-side-and-zig-to-the-zag-class co-workers and discuss the arts, politics and J. Lo's engagement.
I attended my dad's most recent supper support group because I felt like making a witty toast after tapping a wineglass with a silver fork. I had never made a toast before. Although, I have made toast by sticking two slices of wheat bread into a "toaster" and charring them tan and firm.
I usually put Smucker's strawberry jelly on my toast, but this would not be the case for my dad's dinner party. I think you have to spread pate, or something made from snail entrails onto cultured cuisine toast. Strawberry jelly is very bourgeois, you see. However, if I referred to my jelly as "jam" then that might be considered acceptable -- especially if it were organic and shipped across the ocean from a Mediterranean island.
Oh, but I sincerely believe that I should be given an Olsen twin (the one with ringlet hair) and a fruit basket for refraining from clich
-ing myself into hack WB sitcom territory in the above paragraphs.
Hello! Jelly to the 10th degree and nary a mention of Beyonce's "Bootylicious" jelly jive-talkin'.
And can I just say how surprised I am that Smucker's has not jumped on Destiny's Child party jam -- pun police! whooo whoooooo -- as the perfect jelly pimping campaign song. Just picture a tight close-up of a Smucker's jam jar with the progressively pumping Stevie Nicks sample guitar strings strumming in the background.
And then Beyonce:
"Kelly, can you handle this?"
"Michelle, can you handle this?"
"Beyonce, can you handle this?"
"I don't think you can handle this!"
Enter the double dog dare of a lifetime. "I don't think you're ready for this jelly, I don't think you're
" and of course the camera shot would have widened in response to the delicious hook to reveal a sassy family of four dancing as they spread Smucker's on toast for breakfast.
Then the tagline: "They're ready for this jelly, are you? SMUCKER'S."
I didn't think my dad's middle-upper-to-the-side-and-zig-to-the-zag-class co-workers were ready for my dinner party toast.
My toast protocol was off, for one. The champagne glass I used to tappa-tappa was filled with milk. I also had no silver forks because of the drought (hahaha -- Newcomb dining hall can kiss my rain-drenched fanny and promptly bring back silverware, thank you kindly) and used a plastic fork.
Unfortunately, plastic forks are made from the same material as mimes and libraries, because there was no dinner party toast glass tinkle. I tried tapping, and tapping, until I got a finger blood clot.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad's cosmopolitan writer friend reaching for her fork in an obvious attempt at a toast proposal.
I panicked and threw my glass into the fireplace while screaming, "KELLLLYYYY CAN YOU HAAAAANDLE THIS?"
Once I had everyone's attention, I declared my intention to toast and beckoned everyone to follow me into the kitchen.
There, I pulled some Wonder Bread from the pantry, held up two slices of grain framed by a crust fit for an edible Mona Lisa, and shoved them into a toaster. People made idol conversation as the bread embryos were nursed by their tender toaster mama into babies fit for Smuckering. But when that little red light flickered on, all were silent.
I popped my newborns out of the Kitchenmate appliance, placed them on a plate, and said, "What did the toaster say to the bread?" Dramatic pause. "Why don't you pop up and see me some time."
And I did it! I made my first witty toast. The middle-upper-to-the-side-and-zig-to-the-zag-class co-workers applauded as I proceeded to smother jam onto the lightly toasted bread. My dad's cosmopolitan writer friend praised my fine dining and asked wherever did I get such fine looking jam. I smiled knowingly at Cosmo as Stevie Nicks and her guitar wafted through my ears, and then, Beyonce:
"I don't think you're ready for this jelly."
Of course, I couldn't say that! Clich
, remember. Total bourgeois, gag me, why don't you look up copyright in the dictionary and then sue yourself, right? So instead I winked at the cosmopolitan writer, and said:
"Oh, this organic strawberry spread? Well, it was shipped here from a Mediterranean island."
Mmmmmm. Now that's some fine toast!
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