Like Topsy, it grew...

It was only supposed to be one man. A long-time friend of my father's, in the country for a brief period of time, was to be invited to the house for dinner. Simple enough, even with the odd dietary restriction. "No onions. He hates onions," I was told. That's fine. I can adapt, even though I put garlic and onions in nearly everything I cook, and find something suitable for the meal.

Then the friend's family member was invited. Again, no biggie. I can stretch a meal for yet another person. No problem.

Then two uncles were invited. Ok, I'll scrap that meal and come up with something else. I'll set up the gentlemen at the dining room table and we'll eat in the kitchen. Not a problem. I can do this.

Now there are eight people coming. Eight. How did this happen? "Your father doesn't have people over that often, we'll manage," says mom. Fine, but eight? I don't have people over often either, but you don't see me going from one person to eight in less than a week. But fine, I'll deal. I need to plan a larger dessert. Don't complain about my grumbling.

"So you're telling me that it's moved up 2 days and now in the afternoon?" Many swears were muttered. There was also some growling. I get to not only deal with two very hyper children just coming home from school, but eight hungry men. On top of that, I have to get the kids ready early for their dance class later on. And we do know how nasty father dear gets when his food isn't served exactly at the time specified. This will not be a good day. I expect screaming and tears and a whole lot of swearing.

"Oh, he's decided that I'm to make the tiramisu now? When was he planning on telling me this?" At this point, I'm seriously considering running away. At least for that day. Dearest father keeps changing things in the menu and not telling me. I wonder if the day will end in a homicide. Who will play the body?

I'm very much dreading this Friday.