Newspapers and magazines at this time of year are filled with menus, recipes and decorating ideas for holiday entertaining, but they all overlook one vital thing: the beverage problem. You know what I’m talking about. These days, get ten people together in a room, and no two of them will drink the same thing.
Take my husband K—’s immediate family. His mother drinks only Fresca. His sister drinks only full-sugar Pepsi, but it’s got to be caffeine-free. K— drinks only diet Coke, preferably now with the so-called lemon “flavor.” (But ask him if he wants a slice of lemon in normal diet Coke, and he’ll turn it down. And “normal diet Coke?” I don’t even know what to call all the soda permutations, except uniformly undrinkable.) His brother-in-law doesn’t drink soda at all as far as I can tell—just coffee by the gallon. I prefer good old-fashioned water unless the only source is from the tap in the neighboring city where the public water tastes pretty much as if someone drilled into the waste line by mistake.
K— and I are anxiously awaiting the day when our nephew is mature enough to choose a signature drink. It’s still a toss-up between milk and apple juice—but that’ll change as soon as he gets enough sugar or aspartame in his system.
In the coffee division, it gets even more complicated. Some want caffeine, some won’t touch it, and I prefer half-caff. Trying to keep track of who wants or doesn’t want milk (1%? 2%? Whole milk? Half and half? Non-dairy creamer? Soy? Rice?) and sugar (Granulated? Cubed? Raw? Honey? Equal? Stevia?) is enough to make my head spin. Some will take espresso, some cappuccino. Some with cinnamon on the froth, some with cocoa powder, and some purists sans topping. Tea? We’ve got an entire bin full. And we haven’t even touched on the beer, wine and mixed drink preferences. Frankly, I don’t think I can remember them.
Invite fifty people to a party, and you’ve just brewed a beverage nightmare. Just the logistics of where to put all the bottles is overwhelming, not to mention what to do with the leftovers at the end of the night. You’ll also need space for at least four coffee makers, a tea kettle and a selection of boutique waters. Pretty soon, the problem becomes evident: no room for the guests.
I’m all for being accommodating, but the proliferation of beverage flavors and types has complicated family and party meal planning to such a degree that one Thanksgiving I resorted to a policy of everyone bringing their beverage of choice. K— didn’t like the idea. “I feel bad about asking people to bring their own drinks,” he said. Personally, I’d always felt bad about having to ask people to bring their own plates and chairs. Until recently, that’s what we had to do because we didn’t own a complete set of dishes or more than three chairs that weren’t in danger of collapse. Actually, we still have to ask some people to provide their own seating, but last year we finally invested in a matched set of ironstone, so at least now we can feed a crowd without having to set the table with Chinet. *
But I didn’t want K— to feel miserly. “Knock yourself out,” I said. “If you do the shopping, you can serve whatever you want.”
Little did I know that the seed I planted in K—‘s brain would grow. In fact, it seemed like it hadn’t…until Thanksgiving morning, when it sprouted. Around noon, he announced that he was going to the store for some drinks, “you know, just to make sure we’ve got all the bases covered.” Translation: I’m going to buy one of everything. To get a real grasp of what this meant, consider that in the typical supermarket, the sodas alone (not to mention any other kind of drink) have their own aisle.
When he returned with his trophy purchase, K— began looking for a place to display the amazing beverage bounty he had acquired. I nixed the kitchen island (“Unless you’re planning to carve the turkey on the bathroom vanity...”), the sideboard (“…appetizers and desserts…”), and several other locations.
Finally, he moved the cat bed out from under the buffet and crammed the bottles underneath. “They can’t possibly be in the way there,” he announced with exasperated finality. Then, to me, he said, “Where am I going to put the rest?” The look on my face must have suggested that he’d get no answer from me, so he didn’t stick around for one.
The cat didn’t stick around, either. She wandered into the dining room, froze in that feline “something’s different” pose and gave the battalion of bottles occupying her normal napping spot a hostile “I hate you” gaze. Finding nothing there with which to get into a staring match, she flicked her tail and went away in search of an alternate place to sleep.
A little while later, guests began arriving. I went to the refrigerator to start unloading the food I’d carefully arranged from back to front in the order in which we’d need it, and I found where K— had put “the rest.” The food was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a phalanx of bottles threatened to topple out when I opened the door. I remembered the cat and thought to myself, “I sort of know how you feel.”
For the rest of the day, K— kept trying to interest guests in some of the interesting things he’d bought to imbibe, but he didn’t get many takers. A bottle of flavored carbonated water he’d opened hopefully wheezed sadly through its screw-top cap, slowly losing fizz, and everything else went pretty much untouched. People drank what they’d brought.
At the end of the night we went to fetch our guests’ coats and found the cat sleeping on them. Apparently, she’d tried each one before making a final selection. Note to self: black wool+white cat=cleaning bill, and black leather+white cat=shoelaces. After some vigorous coat brushing and distribution of a few Benadryls, that problem was solved, or at least it drove off with our guests. At the door, at my insistence, K— pressed bottles of Orange Crush and Turkish beer on guests as they left. “Otherwise,” I said, “where’s the cat gonna sleep?”
Poor K—. He means well, and that’s one of the sweet things about him. Nonetheless, this Thanksgiving, I just hope he doesn’t decide to tackle the chair shortage.
* Chinet is a brand of high quality paper plates, for those of you unfamiliar with quality levels of paper plates.
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