Last Christmas I dreamed of getting out of NYC. This year my wish had come true. While I was still unable to make it home for the holiday, my family came to us and I was faced with hosting my very first Christmas. I was able to serve up a white Christmas, but hosting is not on my resume, except for that hostess job at that Mexican restaurant I quit after three days when they  expected me to make guacamole table side (I can’t guacamole with an audience). I found out that hosting is so much harder than many talented grandmas and moms have led me to believe.

Baking. I began by calling my mom to find out what shortening is. Is is butter or margarine? Next call: is sweet cream butter normal butter? Next call: Salted or not? The options for fat are overwhelming. I made only one batch of cookies using a large sauce pot to mix the dough and estimated every measurement with the only ⅔ measuring cup we had. I’m not very good at fractions and there were no homemade cookies for my guests.

Cleaning. I planned on doing a really great clean, from top to bottom, making the entire place spotless. But in the final hours before their arrival, I found myself hiding things in closets and dusting with stray socks I found on the floor. When I stuffed the last thing into the closet, the entire door fell off. I did attempt to actually clean parts of the house and I armed myself with 409 in one hand and Windex in the other to tackle the bathrooms. Mike has told me not to mix bleach and ammonia several times, but the chemicals must be affecting my memory. I spent the next hour with my head out the door trying to undue the damage I read I had done on WebMD and texting people asking if I was OK.  However, stupidity is a great way to get out of cleaning the bathroom. I even took on some last minute decorating. I hung a giant mirror on a prayer, which Mike scolded me for and fixed before it could create a glass shard filled carpet not fit for guests. But the place was clean. I regret not taking a picture of the clean before the holiday storm because within minutes of our guests arrival it seemed about as real as Santa Claus.

Christmas Dinner. OK. Well I can take no credit for the cooking. My one job was to pick up some missing items including pickling spice. Instead I got pickling salt, which is apparently only good for Christmas pickles. The one time I went into the kitchen to “help” I left the kitchen bleeding and overacting from a knife incident. I was quickly treated with a band-aid and took the rest of the night off. Mike made shrimp, pepperoni bread, cheese plates, veggie plates, meatballs, pasta, chicken parmesan, and I decorated the table with pine cones and dished out his  homemade sauce with the ⅔ measuring cup. Dinner conversation was consumed by a mysterious substance in my water glass that I found half way through dinner that I was convinced was poisonous. To calm me, Mike drank it — so very Romeo and Juliet of him. Although, this made me mad because we would have been the worst hosts ever if we both were poisoned. The verdict was that it was bread crumbs, but I still don’t feel quite right.

All in all, we laughed, I cried, and everyone survived. And although I filled glasses with boxed wine, had no Christmas hand towels, and didn’t wash my hair the whole time; we had a very merry PC Christmas.

But no matter what I am always the hostess with the mimosas.