Tuesday Night Dinner Party: Don’t Smoke a Duck

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Although I am a food writer and a former restaurant cook, I don't entertain at home all that often. This mostly has to do with my tendency to overdo it. The problem is, I think of the clever cooking project first, and the reality of the entire event afterward. For example, I might get it into my head that I want to smoke a duck in the barbecue, so I invite friends over on a Sunday night for a picnic. Then on Saturday, instead of hanging out with the kids, I have to run to the Asian market downtown to find a duck, and some expensive produce and exotic condiments I will try once in the name of culinary innovation and promptly forget.

Sunday I spend all afternoon running outside and tending to the Big Green Egg, inhaling soot and smoke, while my husband drags around our two young kids (Gus, 4, and Adele, 1). Meanwhile of course, I have to come up with some clever sides—a slaw, perhaps—and a potato salad (homemade mayo, natch), and at least one relish. Pretty soon the baby is on the ground crying because she's getting a new tooth and won't be put down, and my husband has gotten distracted by Executive Decision on the TV or some such. I have scooped up the baby on my hip to keep her out of the way while I drain the kiddie tortellini (with my non-baby hand, of course) and inform The Goose, that no, I can't make a spider web out of twine and chopsticks just at the moment. When my friends arrive, I have charcoal on my forehead and sweat on my clothes. The kids emerge and take over the house, which is great, but crazy.

We finally get a kiddie picnic spread out in the backyard and a few minutes of peace so the grownups can have their food. The smoked duck is really, really good, and the company is lovely, even if certain adults have to disappear periodically for diaper changes and milk refills. But I pay a high price at the back end, after the fond good-byes. Just as I am thoroughly exhausted, and slightly tipsy, I survey the landscape before me: From the backyard into the kitchen, there is a trail of half-eaten food,toy swords, board books, and dirty dishes that far exceed the capacity of the dishwasher. The babies need bathing, the counters need degreasing, the Playmobil dinosaur needs repairing, and I can't think about entertaining for another month at least.

A month stretches into two months, and then three, and pretty soon, we've lost touch with life outside our domestic routine. Except for our circle of close friends, we only see people here and there at the farmer's market or the coffee shop, and rely on glib Facebook updates in order to keep in touch.

The cycle has to end. Starting this month, I resolve to tackle the problem at its root. No more elaborate smoked duck and home-made condiments. No more last-minute trips to cross-town markets. From now on, the guests come first, and the food later. Every week, I'm asking company over for a weeknight dinner. Not just people I know really well but also people I want to get to know better. The gallery director and his family with whom I've had a five-year, unconsummated "let's get together" relationship. The old friend who moved back to Seattle four years ago and whom we see only twice a year. The pre-school mom who seems cool even though we've only spoken in hasty exchanges at morning drop-off. And I will chronicle my efforts to become a more welcoming and possibly less impressive cook here, every other week, and hopefully pass my lessons onto you.