Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

We have houseguests staying with us this week, which naturally reminded me of the time my girlfriend’s parents came to dinner.

Let me ‘splain.

As part of her new business, my wife is hosting a retreat for some of her colleagues. They are staying with us for the week, during which they’ll all confab and meditate and plan and strategize and bond as a team.

Since my direct involvement is neither required nor particularly useful, I offered to do two things:

1. Do the cooking and washing up.
2. Otherwise stay out of the way.

Regular readers know that I am an unabashed omnivore; my recipes are almost always omnivorous or “omnivore adjacent.” Knowing that, you can imagine my reaction when, after planning menus and making shopping lists, I learned that one of our guests is gluten-free and another is vegan:

DON’T PANIC

It’s not like I have an axe to grind with vegans, vegetarians, or folks with food sensitivities. As long as they don’t use their food regimes as a pseudo-religious cudgel with which to proselytize or berate me, we’re good. So while I may have rolled my eyes at hearing the news of our guests’ dietary preferences, it wasn’t out of annoyance. I was simply thinking, “What the hell am I going to do?”

You see, whether they’ve dropped by for a chat or are staying for a week, I want my guests to enjoy their visit. I want them to rest well, have fun, and eat well. While I’m not a fantastic or particularly innovative chef, what I do cook I cook well, and I take pride in building meals and menus that can be enjoyed by all. If someone has dietary restrictions that are different than my usual, rather catholic fare, I want to accommodate them. As someone who, at different points in life, was a vegetarian and kept kosher, I have first-hand experience with life on the other side, and can empathize with the challenges.

It was my first experience with this, in fact, that solidified my stance.

Back in the Pleistocene epoch, when I was still dating, I fell in love with a vegetarian. It was one of my few long-term relationships, and for many reasons—solidarity, perceived health benefits, kinder planetary footprint, etc.—I adopted a vegetarian diet as well.

Since I was in the relationship for the long haul, it was decided that our parents should meet. I didn’t know that it would instigate the first major confrontation I ever had with my folks.

My mother was the main cook in our house (Dad really only cooked fried chicken dinners, Sunday morning breakfasts, and anything that involved an open flame). Mom wasn’t a great cook. She was barely a good cook. Cooking was not an occupation she enjoyed. When it came to my brothers’ finicky palates and on-again/off-again preferences, our mother countered with “It’s that or nothing.” She didn’t care if they were “off” broccoli that week. If broccoli was on sale, that’s what we were having. That, or nothing.

With that as prologue, I should not have been surprised when, upon learning that my girlfriend’s parents were vegetarian, my mother said “They can eat what I serve.” While her binary food-mantra was de rigueur for offspring, I was honestly shocked to hear her intent to apply it to adult guests.

I cannot tell you where my strong sense of hospitality came from or why it is so important to me, but I can tell you that, even then, it was an indelible part of my psyche. What followed was a battle of wills in which I inveighed upon my mother, using everything I could muster—logic, guilt, shame, anger—in an attempt to convince her to reconsider.

The vagaries of recollection and the passage of time have colluded to remove from my memory the result of this contest. I honestly don’t remember if I prevailed. I can’t even recall if the dinner meeting ever took place. What can I say. The Seventies were a weird time.

Whether the dinner happened or not is irrelevant, now. What is relevant is that, when you come to my home, you can expect to be treated well. You can even behave badly (up to a point), and be treated well (though return engagements are not likely).

And so, yesterday was a frenzy of cleaning and cooking prep—Roasting almonds. Making tabbouleh salad and hummus. Cooking beans.—and all of the meals on the menu now have V/GF options. The fridge is completely filled, the fruit I picked is ripening on schedule, and I have only one more trip to the store (for caffeinated coffee and extra cream, maybe some flowers to brighten the place a bit).

I didn’t panic. Much.

And they’re arriving.

It’s showtime.

k