The Hostess with the Mostess (I Hopess, Anyway)

"Why don’t you just order pizza?" he asked me.

My jaw dropped to the floor. I was shocked. Appalled, even.

"BECAUSE!" I exclaimed. "Home cooking is an expression of LOVE!"

This exchange occurred last week. It was the night before we were going to have company over for dinner, and, as always, I was stressing myself out in my ongoing attempt to make everything perfect. And, in case it hasn't been made clear, I feel cooking is an expression of love.

I know what you're wondering: What's up with the blank spaces? You see, I left them there to represent my inability to explain why cooking is an expression of love. I tried for more than an hour, but was (clearly) unsuccessful. Let's just say there's a lot of love in my family, and that my family is made up of exceptionally gifted cooks. When the family gathers, it's often over a good meal. So, I describe cooking as an expression of love. For this, I blame my mother, who poured love into every dish she ever made.

Actually, that's not true. I blame the whole family.

I blame my grandma, who cooks from scratch and does so without using a recipe. My aunt, who bakes loaves of bread so delectable, Dr. Arthur Agatston would call the South Beach Diet a book of lies after one bite. My brother, whose grilled buffalo wings make airfare to Missouri seem like a small price to pay for such a treat. My other aunt, whose gourmet cooking is worthy of the rich and famous. My sister, of course, who introduced me to the phenomenon otherwise known as maple glazed salmon and always serves five-star dishes. And my dad, who taught me how boring it would be to serve rice, fish sticks, and ramen noodles with or without egg on rotation every weekend makes some extraordinary potato and cheese soup and beef jerky so good, even a vegetarian can't resist a piece.

My family set the bar high. So no, I will not "just order pizza." Here’s what I did instead:

For the appetizer, I bought cheese from the specialty cheese section of the store. If that doesn’t say, "I love you," I don’t know what does. Blue cheese, parmesan cheese, and pepper jack cheese (don’t worry mom, I served them all at room temperature). I also set out a bowl of sundried tomato basil crackers and a dish of olives sautéed in olive oil with cloves of fresh garlic.

The main course consisted of pasta primavera, served with a garden salad and multi-grain bread, accompanies by a glass (or two) of wine.

For the grand finale, I served key lime pie. Funny story, actually. Until that night, I had never made a pie in my life. The recipe seemed simple enough, and I was feeling confident enough in my cooking abilities to give it a try. I was at the store fillling a bag with limes for said pie when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a game-changer. Perched upon a small mountain of other exotic fruits were several bags of key limes. I paused and mulled over the possiblity. I knew that juicing those suckers would be a timely task, since they are about a third the size of regular limes. However, this being my first pie, I wanted it to be as authentic as possible. I bravely grabbed a bag of key limes, keeping only one regular one in the mix. Cut to me, in the kitchen, juicing what seemed like a million key limes. I have one of those citrus juicers similar to this one, but without the cup underneath:

Mine just fits right over a cup or glass and you juice away. Which is what I was doing. Twenty-five minutes into the process, I had just over 3/4 cup of lime juice - I was almost there! Pleased with my progress, I began juicing another key lime when the worst thing imaginable happened.

I knocked the glass over.

Fortunately, not all was lost. I managed to catch the glass before it turned completely on its side, but even so, the damage was irreversable. I went from 3/4 full to just below half a cup. In more ways than one, the glass was half empty!

I took a deep breath. I walked away from the kitchen. Then I came back. Then I glanced at the counter, soaked with key lime juice. I had to walk away again. (I can be so dramatic).

I came back and observed the damage. Giving up was not an option. Actually, it was, but I am not a quitter! I reached for the last handful of unjuiced key limes with new determination and juiced them ever-so-carefully. Then I juiced the real lime. After that, I was out of limes, both regular and key, so I said, "To hell with authenticity!" and finished off the cup with artificial lime juice. You know, the kind that comes in the plastic container that looks like a lime. (You don't fool me, plastic lime. Cooking fresh is the way to go!)

In the end, the pie turned out beautifully. I garnished it with lime zest and fanned a strawberry in the center. And it was delicious, if I do say so myself. Everything is, when it's made with love.