The Day of the Party…

38. Awake at 4:35 to the EEP EEP EEP of the alarm and a loud crash as your husband knocks the bedside lamp to the floor.
39. Lie real still and pretend you don’t know anything about donuts
40. After 10 minutes, shoot out of bed. Do not slow down for the next 16 ½ hours (except for during the church service because it would be super rude to run around and flap your arms during a sermon).
41. Working as quietly as possible so that the kids don’t wake up, make six batches of this recipe.

42. Generously give your husband the opportunity to have a good (hour and twenty minute) workout kneading the dough. (You had your workout yesterday and fear of impending sore muscles and immobility has inspired you to pop a preventative Ibuprofen. You feel amazingly great.)
43. When the sun starts to come up and the children start to trickle downstairs and mess with the flour, turn your back on the mess at the kitchen table and transform 24 pounds of confectioner’s sugar into a glaze, kicking yourself all the while because of all the tasks, this one could have been done earlier.

44. Look at the clock and start mumbling, There is no way we’ll be ready for church on time. Look at the clock again and state boldly, martyrously, I’m just going to have to stay home this morning. Then glance at the clock one more time, throw back your head, and howl piteously, THERE IS NO WAY WE CAN PULL THIS OFF ON TIME!
45. In typical Sunday morning fashion, fifty percent of your children indulge in their own meltdowns, turning your solo performance into a splendid trio.
46. Persevere.
47. With twenty minutes till departure time, fly upstairs to wash hair, get dressed, put on make-up. Run to the car, drive pell mell to church, screech to a halt in front of the church, and…
48. Step sedately from the car, walk calmly into the building, and collapse in your chair.
49. Reeeeeelaaaaaax.
50. Suddenly feel incomplete. Mentally review your outfit. Underwear? Check. Shoes? Check. Bra—is it on backwards?—no, whew. Check. Shirt? Check.
51. Relax, again.

52. After church, drop kids off at respective houses/activities and speed home to: punch down the dough, set up the work areas, spread tablecloths, arrange flowers, eat lunch, wash apples, vacuum, take pictures.

53. When the newlyweds (who do have names—Kaitlin and Nathan—though it’s more fun to call them newlyweds because it makes you think of chirruping little birdies) arrive, send them to fetch the kids, cider, and ice.
54. Pump yourself full of caffeine and chocolate.
55. Send your husband to your brother’s house to borrow their table.

56. Cut out donuts.

57. Get bored with cutting out donuts and look up “doughnut” in the food encyclopedia.
58. Eat more chocolate and cut more donuts.

59. When Kaitlin and Nathan return with kids and cider, let them take over the donut cutting so you can relocate yourself to your station in the yard. It will become Your Spot for the next 3 ½ hours, so make yourself comfortable.

60. Heat the oil. When it doesn’t heat as quickly as you anticipated, feel flustered.

61. The first guests arrive. The oil still isn’t hot. Smile.

62. Suddenly, cars start turning in and the oil is hot. First drop some donuts in the oil and then the mesh scooper spoon on the ground. Wait while Kaitlin races the spoon into the house, washes it, and races back. Dry the spoon and stick it into the oil. It sputters wildly. Quickly remove it and holler at your husband to bring the other mesh spoon. He brings some tongs.
63. Cars are steadily pulling into the drive and passing behind you on their way down to the field to park.

64. “Get me the other MESH SPOON!” you holler to your husband.
65. “What’s wrong with the one you have,” your husband asks in his most infuriating, calm-yourself-down-you-crazy-woman voice.
66. There is no time for explanations. Shriek loudly, “The donuts are BURNING! Bring me the other mesh spoon NOW!”

67. People, quizzical expression on their sweet faces, draw closer to watch you dance about.
68. “Here,” your husband says, all confident and manly. “Give me the spoon.” And he tries to dry it off by sticking it into the flame. He only succeeds in scorching the wires.
69. “I NEED THE MESH SPOON!”
70. Finally, FINALLY, your husband races into the house and returns with the appropriate spoon and you fish out the very dark donuts. (You mean for them to get thrown away, but forget to tell Kaitlin and Nathan, so a few dear souls get to eat burned donuts and go home thinking that’s the best you could do.)

71. Your husband fixes up the original mesh spoon (the scorch marks are permanent) and hands it back to you. One of the newlyweds stations him/herself beside you and starts glazing, and after a few more batches of donuts fry up nice and golden, your shoulders start to relax.

72. Friend Steve sees your camera sitting on the stand beside you and snaps a picture of you all a-glow with oil, stress, adrenaline, and the sinking sun.

73. Fall into a pattern: plop donuts into the oil, grab the camera and snap pictures, remove donuts from the oil, plop more donuts in the oil, and all the while, visit, visit, visit, visit, visit, visit.

74. Watch delightedly as people make themselves at home, visiting the chickens, walking the property line, ogling your basement canning shelves.

75. Kids are everywhere, bouncing on the trampoline, playing in the clubhouse, riding bike, swinging, getting a lift up so they can peer into the pot of bubbling oil, and, always always always, cramming their faces with donuts.

76. Cars continue to pull in the drive one right after the other, the donuts are being eaten as fast as you can make them, you are surrounded by chattering people on all sides, and suddenly you are so overwhelmed with happiness you could cry.

77. But tears and oil don’t mix well, so blink hard and instead smile so vigorously your face nearly splits in half.

78. About an hour into the party, start worrying that you won’t have enough donuts. Whisper your fears to your husband and when he says you haven’t even fried half the donuts yet, be relieved.

79. Then be deeply dismayed.

80. When people ask how many donuts you’re making, start to embellish. Instead of saying “five to six hundred donuts plus holes,” say “over a thousand donuts counting the holes.” Gleefully relish their amazement.

81. Let your husband take over so you can take a bathroom break.

82. Return to your post and fry away. Try not to splash the guests with hot oil as that would not be very hospitable.
83. Destroy your clothes with hot oil splatters.
84. As people begin to leave, ply them with extra donuts for the road.

85. When darkness falls and the guests disperse and you can no longer see the color of the donuts in the oil and you still have several more trays to fry, throw up your hands and call it quits.
86. When some late-coming friends offer to help clean up, do not turn them away. Instead, pour them some wine, point them in the direction of the sink, and toss them some clean dishtowels.

87. Approach Kaitlin who is still working (Nathan having left a little earlier, though after staying much later than you expected) and tell her that she can leave at any time. When she says she was planning on staying till 8:30 and is still willing to help, thank her profusely and silently beam warm fuzzies in the direction of her (from-all-appearances-based-on-their-awesome offspring) honorable and incredible parents. (You’ve been exposed to Nathan’s parents’ awesomeness for years, so that he stood beside you for long periods of time [probably getting a sugar rush through his glazed-drenched fingers] came as no surprise. However, you were very impressed that he went so far as to actually anticipate your moves.)
88. Set one of your late-coming friends up with a bowl of melted butter and another bowl of cinnamon sugar and the raised donut holes. Monkey bread will be in your future.

89. Eat apples and spoonfuls of peanut and cashew butter to counteract the sugar rush.
90. Open a care package/hostess gift: epsom salts for soaking (which you will do that evening before going to bed), a jar of pear-ginger chutney, and two-holy! freakin’! cow!-pounds of homemade maple sugar.

91. Shut down the kitchen, bid friends good night, and put kids to bed.
92. Bask in weary exuberance.
93. When your husband asks, “So, was it worth it?” say, “Absolutely” and mean it, down to the tippy tips of your tired toes.

The end.

This same time, years previous: keeping my hands in the toilet, pumpkin-sausage cream sauce, rhubarb cake

The Day Before the Party…

21. Peel, cook, and mash the potatoes.
22. Burn up your mixer in the process.
23. Hit full-blown panic mode because there are more potatoes to be mashed but you can’t (see Number 22), mashed potatoes are splattered all over your freshly washed counters, the house is a mess, your hair is dirty, you forgot to make the glaze, you have to leave for that all-important belly dance workshop in less than an hour, and you can NOT find a water bottle anywhere.
24. Fixate on the water bottle.
25. Accept your husband’s offer to find you a water bottle while you take your panicky self upstairs to get ready.
26. Return downstairs, thank your husband for the bottle of water, and drive off without the water.
27. Attend the belly dance workshop which, it turns out, is geared for professional belly dancers.
28. Be awed.
29. Be even more mortified.
30. Position yourself at the back of the room and try to pretend you’re not an elephant in ancient yoga pants and a faded, too-small top with a threadbare sports bra underneath.
31. Tell yourself that it doesn’t matter. Belly dance is not your life.
32. Continue to suffer agonizing mortification pains anyway.
33. Out in the hall at break time, moan about your inability to do a reverse undulation, belly roll, shoulder roll—heck, all of the moves—but then seize on one truth and shout, “But I can make donuts!” and feel better, if only for 3 seconds.
34. When the workshop ends, slink to the car and profusely congratulate yourself on your decision to skip out on the swanky restaurant because your ego can only withstand so much embarrassment in a five-hour period and you reached your limit four hours and thirteen minutes ago.
35. Arrive home, tuck kids in bed, and visit briefly with an exhausted husband.
36. Mentally review all that needs to be done: make the glaze! grind the coffee! wash the apples! make the dough! decorate the porches! sweep the porches! vacuum the house! go to church! pick up the cider! buy ice!
37. Crawl upstairs to bed and pull the covers over your head.

1. Set the party date for a couple months out, hope for good weather, and tell everybody.
2. Freak out, sit down with your husband, and together process all the reasons for freaking out, of which there are a discouraging many.
3. Make lists.
4. Stress, worry, giggle hysterically.
5. Make more lists, show them to your husband, and get your panties in a twist when he shrugs the list/you off.
6. Let your husband know, in no uncertain terms, that making light of your stress does not help reduce it.
7. Every few days make a new Panic List and show it to your husband. Have no shame—if things don’t get checked off quickly enough, resort to hysterics.
8. If things get really bad, throw down your dish rag and threaten to leave.
9. Decide to attend a five-hour belly dance workshop in a distant city on the day before the party and agree to dance at a swanky restaurant (in the same distant city) that night at 10 o’clock even though you know full well it means you won’t get home till 1:30 in the morning and you’ll have to get up three hours later to start making the dough.
10. Feel sheepish (and ever so slightly guilty) and bust your butt doing lots of work.
11. On second thought, decide that hundreds of donuts on three hours of sleep might not be such a good idea and back out of the swanky restaurant part of the deal but hold steadfast in your workshop plans ’cause belly dance is awesome.
12. Stress some more.
13. Combat the stress by making more lists.
14. A couple weeks pre-party, snag a newlywed couple after church and cordially invite them to come help the afternoon of the party. When they say yes, bask in several blessed hours of stress-free relief.

15. Buy mums, pot them, and set them on the front porch away from the main thoroughfare so your children won’t de-flower (not in the Shakespearean sense) them.
16. Wash windows, dust, wash more windows, dust more dust.
17. Watch happily while your husband cuts down ratty trees, puts the garden to sleep, spruces up the chicken coop, mows, weed wacks, pressure washes the porch, etc.
18. Watch not-so happily as your husband decides that it’s time to build a woodshed, but don’t say anything as you know he’ll just cock an eyebrow and say mildly, And, um, the belly dance workshop?
19. Buy 50 pounds of bread flour, 24 pounds of confectioner’s sugar, 3 gallons of oil, ½ gallon of half-and-half, and a bushel of empire apples.
20. Accept a church friend’s offer to provide the apple cider—he will press it the day before—and do a Little Happy Jig because fresh-pressed cider rocks.

This same time, years previous: apple cake, Italian cream cake, the stash of 2008, deprivation