Stories

dinnerparty1.jpgEvery once in a while, the stars align: a magical setting.  The flickering call and response of candlelight touches the senses.

The right group of friends.  Cool night breezes filled with laughter and conversations that run deep and late into the night.

And, of course, the food...the fancy, incredible food. The meal itself...love incarnate.  Blood Orange Martinis prepare our palates for miniature blintzes dolloped in salmon cream followed by sips of ice cold, luxury Dutch vodka.  Sautéed radicchio leaves wrap and lovingly showcase asparagus, prosciutto and cheese, while pairing well with fifteen year old French Champagne.

Endive from Belgium drizzled generously with a bright, white-balsamic vinaigrette, easily cradle pungent Danish blue cheese and crunchy, candied-pecans. Warm, crusty rolls begin to make their way around the table....still more French Champagne to enjoy.

Then, lobster done two ways....first bisqued, then tails stuffed with crab, lobster and buttery cream. The tails sit atop clouds of creamy Yukon Golds and saddle nicely with tender green beans doused in a warm bacon-shallot vinaigrette.

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kleenexshoes.jpgAs the world becomes shortage and space obsessed, I realize how ahead of the curve I've been in making myriad reuses of everything and everyone. Call me frugal/economical and/or exploitive/anal.

I reuse big tissue boxes as snowshoes for a friend's kids (kids become two-pronged sources of love and laughs, lumbering around like "transformer bots"); I use their abandoned toy cars as conveyances for salt and pepper shakers glued on top, as "pass the salt" makes the dining room table a speedway.

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fancyladies.jpgI spend a great deal of my life working functions that exceptionally wealthy people go to. My official jobs have ranged from handing out escort cards to rangling opera singers, to making emergency Staples runs, to standing and looking pretty. I’m especially good at that last one.

But my unofficial job is where I really excel: soothing the savage rich lady.

Actually, I’m pretty great with rich old men as well, but soothing the savage rich man sounds like the subject for a whole other blog, by a writer who isn’t me, and you need to buy a subscription to read it.

If any of you are considering entering into the exciting field of nonprofit fundraising, you need to learn one thing: rich ladies like it when you like their blouse. Ok, or their jewelry or their hair or their bag, but blouse is a funnier word, and relates specifically to one unfortunate such occurrence I experienced recently.

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no-alcohol.jpgNo one ever assumes you eat Brussels sprouts. No one brings you to their living room, presents two plates of Brussels sprouts, and sits grinning, waiting for you to go to town. No one orders a round of Brussels sprouts for the table. No one asks you out with, “let’s get Brussels sprouts.” And no one nods knowingly when you’re a shambles Sunday morning from Brussels sprouts gas.

Now, it happens, I do, in fact, love Brussels sprouts. It also happens that I do not drink alcohol. And yet, everyone I meet makes the assumption that I do, until told otherwise. Drinker until proven abstinent. This bothers me.

I quit drinking in April 2009, because I didn’t like how entwined my dating and drinking lives had become. I decided the only way to fully render them apart would be to quit drinking completely, until I found myself in a relationship, procured sans-drink, at which point I would re-evaluate.

The bad news is I’m still waiting on that relationship.

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donald-trump_49021t.jpgPerhaps there should be a college course on Donald Trump – after all they have been lecturing on Barbie for decades! He is the last of the great Think Big, Act on Inspiration, and Let the World Know Just How Great You Are kinda guys. Like two gods in one room, the world may not be ready for too many Donald Trumps, but it is our luck that we have at least one!

Even luckier that he delights/infuriates us in Palm Beach! Only so much time can pass in Palm Beach before Donald’s name comes up, or you are sitting at a table in his grand ballroom for The International Red Cross Ball, or his private Bocelli concert. Of course I am referring to “The Donald” who because of Donald Duck’s fading career absolutely owns the name!

Truly, not since Donald Fauntleroy Duck has there been a Donald so internationally famous – and so rich – as Donald John Trump. Comparisons are in order:

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