#422 Balls of Jolly

So I was at a party the other night. Pretty swank affair, anyone who was anyone was there. The great thing about the party was room after room of hors d’oeuvres. Now let me say, I’m a sucker for hors d’oeuvres. The idea of grazing from dish to dish really satisfies both the hunter and the gatherer in me. One should always be sensitive to one’s gatherer side. Game may be high in protein, but it’s also quick, while berries are high in both energy-packed carbohydrates and vitamins and, um, slow. Even many of today’s clinically obese un-exercised children could outrun a berry. The many tables of hors d’oeuvres were just the ticket. You could graze in enough different places it didn’t look like you were snack loitering. Usually when you go to an event and they feature a variety of snacks they provide a little plate at the beginning of the snack table. Finger food follows: Little quiches maybe. A cocktail sausage. If you’re lucky a crock-pot of meatballs. And if you’re really lucky a tureen of iced shrimp. Occasionally, and this seems to be an hors d’oeuvre trend lately, they’ll have a little spanakopita pastry. It makes for a truly international table. Italian pizza-flavored French quiches. Shrimp with Asian cocktail sauce, and Greek style spanakopita. I especially like the filling. Nothing says Greek like a stuffed spanakopita. The challenge comes at the end. Usually these parties also have nowhere to sit. Or nowhere that the stupid early birds haven’t already wormed their way into. And the big problem is on your way to the hors d’ buffet you gathered up your second complimentary glass of hosted wine. It’s been okay as long as you can move it with you along the table while you figure out how to geometrically balance your tiny floppy plate to hold as many hors d’ offerings as possible. Now, however, you’re at the end of the table, wine in one hand, plate of food in the other and voila, no third hand to actually eat with. Grazing is only fine if you do it politely, with your hands, no one expects you to bend your head down and actually bite your food off the plate. So here’s my solution. Forget the plate and take multiple trips through the hors d’ line. Use the opportunity to chat up people as they go through. Schmooze while you cruise. Then you have one hand free for your beverage and one hand free to pluck and eat the morsels of goodness, hot, chilled, or room temperature cheese, right off the serving dish. With any luck, no stupid girl will bring a stewing dog to the event and shed dog hair into the meatballs. One did to the party the other night. All I could do was imagine the little yapper on a spit at Costco. Still, it wasn’t the dog’s fault, it was its oblivious codependent canine coddler. But I’ll cut her a little peace-on-earth season slack. Dogs were human’s original hunting companions. Maybe she brought it to sniff out the best holiday cheeseballs.
America, ya gotta love it.