From the outside, it appears I'm staging a Formula 1 race around my block of suburbia and feeding the thousands who will show up to watch it. I'm not kidding, I just came home and unloaded the car. With food. Tons of food. You'd think I'm planning to feed Patton's army.
It's actually only six people. I've rationalized my excesses with "if we don't eat it all at the track, you can have it for lunch next week" excuse. The plain truth is, I'm a Southerner, and you don't ask people to bring food when you're the one who has done the inviting. And there's no disgrace more horrifying (except wearing ratty underwear when you get hit by a bus, or fake pearls)(no, not hit by the fake pearls, wearing them). Anyway, there's nothing more humiliating than running out of food. It MUST not happen. Hence the coolers that will be stuffed to the gills. Remember, I'm feeding six people who will have nothing to do all day until the race starts about 7 p.m. Well, they can chat and be sociable, and discuss drivers and who has the best chance to win the Chase, but they can't bring food. Verboten.
We were once invited to a dinner party, I accepted (by phone with the inviting person), at which point the invitor said "oh, and bring a casserole." Now, if I wanted to cook that night, I'd stay home and do it. So I thought about it for half a second, and said "Oh, I'm so sorry, I just found my husband's calendar, and we can't make it after all." It's not a dinner party if I'm taking dinner to someone else's house, and I wasn't a willing cook. My husband, the mid-westerner, sees nothing wrong with asking people to bring food to a party, but I'd rather wear fake pearls and ratty underwear, and believe me when I say, it'll be a cold day in hell when I do.
Just sayin'. . . .
On to Richmond! Can't wait for this weekend and tailgating, shopping the trailers, and a wonderful race.
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