Fairfield County, Genius Idea

While Pinky was thriving at her first K - 12 school (possibly the best of all of them), I started thinking about a move.  I thought I was thinking about a move to Connecticut in order for her to see more of at least one set of grandparents.  The truth was that, which I only truly understood recently, we were in the middle of the AIDS epidemic and I was beside myself with grief.  This was before there were really good drugs that could actually give you HOPE.  I had already lost at least ten of my friends, one of them my closest and oldest man friend.

Alex & Geoff St Paddy's Day

I still cry when I think about him and his partner.  All these brave, funny, creative people had vanished and the streets of New York looked like what they were; headquarters of a terrible plague.  I awoke every morning with a sense of panic.  Fear for my remaining vulnerable friends, and fear for Pinky.  She had spent three months in the hospital as a premie and had received numerous transfusions, all before they started testing the blood supply and letting you donate.  A more courageous person would have had her tested, but because there was no cure, and because we had already been through so many other stressful events in a mere six years, I couldn't bring myself to find out.  I also didn't want to condemn my sweet child to ostracism, a  common reaction to AIDS sufferers at the time.  I kept all that fear to myself and did both of us a disservice.  I waited until she was eight years old to get a medical opinion and the answer was, "Oh Mrs. Guest, you would have seen it by now.  She's perfectly healthy."  That was a colossal relief, but it didn't come in time to stop my move to Fairfield County.  
Because I didn't let myself see the real reason for moving, I would toy with the idea of a rustic country life "for the benefit of the family".  Each time we would spend the weekend in New Canaan with my husband's parents we would leave Pinky with them* and get realtors to show us houses.  I wasn't worried about being swept away because I had a peculiar requirement: an antique house but the walls had to be very big with no windows in order to accommodate the gigantic modern art we owned.  Where I loved the beauty of the antique houses, they almost always had rooms that were low ceilinged and walls that were taken up by pretty mullioned windows.  I failed to anticipate an antique with a modern profile.  And There It Was.  An incredibly romantic 19th century Mill House,

the sycamore is not dead

renovated by a stylish architect in the nineteen twenties.  It had two story French windows, oak paneled library, goat roasting fireplace, a second story formal dining room with views of the pond and enormous waterfall, office, maid's room, four giant bedrooms on the third floor and a staircase to help you make an Entrance.  I could find nothing to criticize.  Per my house kachina it was cheap because of an iffy location.

Irresistible

 So I made us move.  I was sure we'd have cozy weekends around the fire with friends from the city.  We would become their playground and every Sunday would be a pajama breakfast.  I was sooo wrong.  Nobody who was hip and child free (everyone we knew) wanted to spend the weekend watching the grass grow.  It might have been different if we'd had a pool, but probably not.  We got Pinky installed in the new school and tried to fit in.  Pinky and I were both a little too different, and her problems were compounded by still being way ahead academically.

Admired by All

  I made it worse for her by picking her up in our 1974 baby blue Cadillac ($250) with Fairuz of Lebanon or Los Lobos pounding out of the radio.  These were not my people, and I spent the rest of the year getting the lay of the land.  That meant I discovered hair bands and even tried very briefly to play golf, a sport I loathed thanks to my parents' obsession with it.  Pinky's birthday party became the locus of my alienation and I started worrying too much about it. 
I was terrified that I wouldn't impress the unknown parents and children.  Money grows on trees there and I discovered there was an intense competition for best of anything.  I also had to create an event that would include NYC friends who could stay for dinner or spend the night.  I assumed that they would have similar interests then found out differently.  I can no longer remember why I made a Come as a Bride Party.  I think it was a riff on a new friend's idea, but the origin is lost to me.   I was so worried that I went way overboard. 

I decided the Brides needed Grooms so I asked some of my husband's friends to appear in their tuxedos to pose for the arrival photos, they also were pressed into dancing with the brides as my insecurity grew and I hired a cocktail hour pianist.  

His was the first name in the yellow pages under musician (it wasn't Adam Ant) and he was cheap and cheerful.  I found out later that he was cheerful because he was an alcoholic.  This helped him get past his confusion about our party not being a wedding but having brides.  He played his four song repertoire of Noel Coward ballads and ate salty peanuts during the breaks, surreptitiously taking a pull at his pocket flask.

  That wasn't enough for me!  I ordered a four tiered sugary wedding cake from the ornate portfolio of the local Italian bakery. Except I had them make it PINK.  I controlled myself and didn't order the bridges and waterfalls that were tempting me like hell.  Then I decided we needed unique party favors and Pinky and I spent an entire day hand crafting charming little photo albums into which the bride photo would go. 
But wait, it's not over yet - what were the games?  I'd already had a bad experience with dancing so knew I couldn't rely solely on Noel Coward. 

I set up big tables laden with Modern Bride Magazines and scissors, glitter, glue and parchment paper and set the brides to making artistic masterpieces.  This only worked for the New Yorkers.  They were used to their indoor lives.  The Ct kids barely glanced at the art project and just ran out the door. Holy Smokes, this was a new problem for me, two disparate groups in two separate places, only one me, and as ever, other beveraging adults benevolently leaving it for me to take care of.  I decided that the indoor group were safe and ran out to find the runaways.  As I jumped through the front door I saw the most beautiful sight;  in the early bright spring light a cluster of gauzy sweet little girls leaned into the pond at the edge of the waterfall and two swans came up to greet them.  Amazing.  

Contemplation lasted a nano second as I screamed to them to get back in to play Pass the Parcel, the linchpin of behavior modification.
All went well thereafter, except that the new mom friends hated me for making such a lavish display.  I later discovered that the norm was to take the crew to the local indoor funland and stick them to the velcro wall.  That's where I wanted to be too, and I stopped the madness for a little bit, at least until the next party.....
I Forgot 
to follow the rule I learned in England - that it's the spirit in which something's done, not the reality
to think of more games
to trust myself
BUT
 if you want a stunning, delicious, over the top cake, call the Italians!
 

*There will be a chapter on leaving Pinky with her Grandparents - there is really that much to say about it

Upside Down Breakfast

When I was little I longed to have one of the popular theme parties that I had attended.  Alas, it was not to be, so now that I'm the boss I have given this party several times for adults or children.  In the sixties it was called a Snatch Breakfast, no longer appropriate terminology, but good for an X rated morning talk show perhaps?  

The way it worked was that only the mothers knew about the plan.  On the morning of the birthday, the party guests were yanked, yawning, from bed and hustled out to the gigantic station wagon.  The car stopped to pick up each child, all still pajama clad with crazy hair, then headed to a banquet table at IHOP where the revelry began. 

The magic here is that the children are automatically giddy from being out in public in a forbidden outfit.  After massive servings of pancakes, some with chocolate chips, all were returned to their houses in time for lunch.  

Those old station wagons would fit ten children easily.  My ex husband refers to it as the Golden Age of Risk - no seat belts, big luggage area with pop up seat facing the car behind, bench seat in front capable of holding three adults and maybe as many as three children plus driver. My friends and I used to hang out of the windows and flirt with the surfers, inhaling the ocean air like happy puppies. Many a time there would be a sudden hit on the brakes and someone would end up under the glove compartment.  Somehow most of us survived.

Dilly de Santa Barbara

The Upper East Side doesn't have an IHOP and with the hectic schedules made for children nowadays, I decided to make them breakfast in the afternoon chez nous.  Pajamas were de riguer and created a hubbub still.  I had learned my lesson and scheduled the party for an hour and a half, plus hired a clown. 

The clown had been an accident (not always creepy).  I had been walking quickly in a NYC-highly-focused way when I heard my name called.  I turned, and there was a woman I hadn't seen since I left Santa Barbara to find The World.  In California she had been a nicely dressed executive and I had thought of her as one of my more stable friends.  We lingered, chatting happily on the sidewalk and upon departure offered each other our contact information.  Sara handed me her card and under her name it said Dilly the Clown.  Whoa, that was a surprise!  I knew she had arrived in NYC only recently, and in the spirit of helping launch a friend's new career, hired her to entertain at the Breakfast Birthday.  I was so glad I did, she was great, friendly, and the children were enthralled. 

Enthrallment

Captivation

 I stationed them all in the big bedroom (pajamas after all) for the performance and set up refreshments in the living room.  This was a breeze:  Pigs in Blankets, chips, Ribena juice boxes (Pinky's favorite), Pixie Stix (my favorite, I'm always hoping no one will take them) and the birthday cake.  


It would not have been a Cynthia Vaiden Guest birthday party if I didn't do one overly tricky thing that made me crazy so I focused that disfunction on the cake.  Of course, I didn't get to it until the night before, late.  I was thinking about the execution; I may seem like I'm spaced out but my brain is actually ticking away with my various flights of fancy.  This was no different; eventually I had a plan.  I would make a cake that looked like a stack of pancakes!  For certain a clever idea, but there were many left turns before it came together.  I used plain vanilla cake mix, filled the cake pans half way so that they made six skinny layers and burned a few before I got the cook time right.  Then, I made a butter pat for the top out of a fat square of yellow tinted marzipan, and, finally, drizzled lemon glaze over the stack and between the layers, replicating the traditional dish.  It worked (3 a.m.) !  Also, the very lopsided cake looked intentional - my skills rarely match my ambition, but I'm good at visual justification.

Unquestionably Wishing For a Barbie Car

I must touch upon the adult versions.  

The first time I used this theme was when I was living in Paris.  In the winter there is no reason to be up in the day, it's too dreary.  That is probably why Paris night life has no last call.  You can party til les vaches come home.  I created the Breakfast Party for our irresponsible lifestyle - 4 p.m. on a lazy Sunday, slightly hungover.  

At the time, most of my friends were models and photographers and playboys.  It's a great combination because no one has regular hours and are usually up for anything.  One of the entertaining facts about models is that they love to be in costume as long as it's barely there, so Baby Doll pajamas made a come-back.  Once everyone said yes they really got into it!  They took the Metro in pj's and robes (models can get away with anything) and one enthusiastic friend wore bunny slippers and put her hair in curlers. 

Just like the children, everyone was giddy with the inappropriateness and the party was in full roar by the time people reached the door bell.  We made Mimosas, played charades poorly, read the Sunday papers, gossiped about the previous evening which probably ended at 7 a.m., and made more Mimosas.  It was so popular an event that an art director we knew with a huge Left Bank apartment started hosting it, and many of us would go from there to dinner, still pajama clad at 

la Coupole 

Party Time

dressed for bed (so convenient) and a little drunky.

These days I like to have the pajama party on New Year's Day.  It replicates many of the Parisien conditions - hangover, late bedtime, giddy atmosphere.  Sadly the pajamas have become less risqué.  I still serve Mimosas but have come to use prosecco instead of champagne, I put out omelets if it's just a few people, if not, scrambled eggs and sherried chicken livers, toast points, REAL Ambrosia Salad (my mother's recipe) and also for the Southerners, a bowl of black eyed peas.  If I'm lucky I can still strong-arm people into a game of charades or another big favorite, the Katastroma Dictionary Game.

I wish it were possible to find the French version of aspirin in the US, it always helped with the hangover- it included vitamin C and was festively effervescent.  An excellent party favor for reprobates.  

If you're in France with a tete de bois ask for 

 Aspirine Tamponnée Effervescente,

un vrai miracle

 p.s.

I grew up with an antique version of Ambrosia Salad and it is seriously delicious.  Peel, quarter and roughly chop oranges into a large bowl.  Add a lot of flaked coconut.  Sparingly dress with sauterne, toss, eat.  It is wonderful after a heavy meal.

Important Links

Black Eyed Peas

Sherried Chicken Livers

  
wonderful blog by an expatriate