Christmas Every Day!

London Aged Two

I love Christmas.  I love the scent of pine, the exuberant DIY lights, the rainbow flocked  trees of Los Angeles, the silly mottoes in Christmas Crackers in England, and, of course, the drunken revelry.  Even the herds of wicker reindeer wandering the winter landscape, as large a population as the infestation of their living counterparts, make me smile.  

Nothing is nicer than making a first Christmas for your baby; their presence multiplies the seasonal pleasures and one of the big secrets of child rearing is revealed - you get to play with their toys!

Pinky's first Christmas was spent with her grandparents in CT.   She got an amazing toy from her Uncle Henry and Aunt Laurie that was a very arty create your own tune cranked music cylinder.  They clearly knew who was going to play with it.  
 

Gloggomobil

Besides having no Christmas responsibilities at 9 months, Pinky was well taken care of by everyone, especially the family dog, who must have licked every exposed part of her for at least an hour while the  grown ups, spiked eggnog in hands, looked on benignly.

Pinky's first Christmas party was a very very chic and intimate gathering for the best people (obviously I was invited) given by my friends, Jed Johnson and Alan Wanzenberg.  There were edgy and important people in attendance, Pat Hackett, Fred Hughes, Francisco Scavullo, and Richard Gere.  Richard Gere actually turned his attention to my little daughter because she looked so wonderful in her pale yellow smocked onesie with lace collar from Bonpoint.  I have no idea what I was wearing, probably whatever it was it had little snail trails of slobber on it, a gift from baby to me.

With the first Christmas came the first Christmas card featuring Pinky.  I started making my own cards the first year I was on my own (a woodcut of Santa, a poem, and a recipe for apple butter).  Pinky's arrival let loose all the crazy in me and I started a collection of wonderful images and found quotations in which Pinky now refuses to participate.  I have no idea why.

When we lived in the States we alternated Christmas between Connecticut, his family, and California, mine.  



The Central Coast, California, Christmases were home made gifts (best one was a candy striped jump rope that my mother had made for Pinky by the boat builders in the marina in Morro Bay), walks on the beach, and ferocious competitive bickering between my mother and her sister.  We met in Morro Bay, a family gathering spot pioneered in the 1940's by my Uncle Meach who was an avid hunter.  It is still one of my favorite places in the world.  Still there, since before my childhood, are Dorn's (originally the Breakers, amazing gigantic breakfasts, French dip sandwiches for lunch, sourdough toast & homemade salsa for anytime),

Take Out Too

   


the Morro Bay Aquarium.  The aquarium is the source of many of my award winning photos; the tanks are surreal space capsules of cement and cinder block, unsettling, but impeccably weird.  I was allowed once to take pictures early in the morning before feeding time, great because the creatures were extra lively.  I was told that once in a while the giant octopus would escape its tank and invade the crab tank for a midnight snack.  They are very clever.

 

Go Soon, Will Be Torn Down

And the Shell Shop

 

Shell Shock

And See's Candies

Place Your Order

 

The Connecticut Christmases were extravaganzas of gift giving, decorations, and fabulous meals.  The time between opening stockings and opening presents was excruciatingly long.  When we finally got to the presents, each had to be opened individually for all to see and comment on.  There was a scribe, usually Grandmother, who wrote down a description of each gift and it's giver on a yellow, lined, paper pad.  The assumption one makes is that this was for Thank You notes, but none were ever sent.  I think those lists can be counted on to appear in an archaeological dig, centuries from now, and the purpose is sure to perplex.

Typical Christmas in CT, Yellow Pad, Front Right

Each Christmas had it's particular seriously stressful moments.  The root of this was the love of competition, apparently strong in both genetic lines, lucky Pinky!    I remember that one year my sister-in-law made a perfect replica of the modern Fishers Island house in gingerbread.  Wow.  

I had a 13 foot tree and a dictatorial hand with regard to decorating it.  I stayed true to my inner rebel on one limb of the Christmas tree.  There is always a gap in the branches; Martha Stewart glue guns a branch into it, most people put it at the back, but I have a special use.  My talented friend, Nancy, gave me a handcrafted Santa Elvis in a white felt jumpsuit; I stand him up in the niche and suspend a miniature glittering crystal chandelier over his head.  Voila, Blue Christmas.

My best Christmas recipe is a simple one.  Buy a tin of Moravian Ginger Snaps ( as thin as potato chips), make a big bowl of whipped cream tempered with sugar and a whisper of vanilla and maybe brandy,  serve for dessert like chips and dip.  Delicious, simple, unusual; you will win the competition.

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

CINCO FLAMENCO

 

Blenheim Palace

Pinky's fifth year was an emotional roller coaster.  I reluctantly agreed to move back to New York, just as I was finding my groove in London.  I had learned to laugh quietly (a big deal as all heads had turned in my direction when I used my loud belly laugh), leave "like" out of my sentences, shoot down the anti-American remarks in a seemingly gentle way but not actually, and learned to appreciate the courteous behavior that kept everything running smoothly.  I also found that when an Englishman finally lets you into his life you get his loyalty forever.  This is probably why it takes so long, they are careful in their commitments.  I am flattered that I passed their tests and love my English friends with all my heart.

During the spring we had taken a trip to the south of Spain; Marbella, Granada, Sevilla and Cordoba.  Pinky had seen a performance of flamenco before we left and loved it.  When she actually got to be up close in little restaurants with spontaneous performances she became obsessed with the dance.  This became pretty amusing.  We would sit down to eat, a guitarist would start a gypsy melody and Pinky would spring up from the table and join him, doing her version of the traditional art.  In her mind she was the flash and drama of a maestra, in reality it resembled a strange clogging dance with a lot of windmilling arm action. We are incredibly grateful to the Spanish people for loving children.   She had a real moment of glory when we took her to the café of a flamenco school in Granada.  The students performed, then during the breaks the younger sisters of the students would hop onto the stage and free form.  When Pinky saw this she grabbed my large floral scarf, wrapped it around herself as a skirt (very clever) and joined in.  Pure bliss.  This dissertation will make sense later.

The move home was wrenching.  

Supergirl in Action at Blenheim

England was home for Pinky.  She loved her school.  Eric, her best friend, came to play every afternoon and they had a very serious fantasy going on as Superman and Supergirl.  They used any large rectangular cloth object  to fashion a cape and rushed around "flying" and fighting crime.  Her legions of relatives doted on her and she on them.  I knew she would be making a big adjustment.  

                                                              NEW YORK

My solution to this was to enroll her in flamenco classes at the 14th St Y.  One of my old friends, Shauna, was an accomplished dancer and taught children's flamenco classes there.  Not only was she a wonderful teacher but my insider track let Pinky be there a year earlier than was allowed.  She made some lovely friends (one had the prettiest name, Luna) as did I, and even though her moves were improvisational she did well.  We both learned to use the castanets which is a great tool for annoying people around you, I have discovered.

Class Recital Luna on Left

I am so glad that she had this little life jacket because the adjustment was indeed difficult.  She had an English accent, English manners, and English clothes.  Because of the English no-nonsense educational system she was way ahead of her age group academically.  NY schools had stopped putting advanced students ahead of their grade, instead were holding strugglers back.  This meant that she had to spend a year in nursery school with many students a year older than she before getting a real education.  Instead of reading, math, science, music, French, and homework she had blocks, sandbox, finger paint and picture books.  The children and teachers made fun of her English accent and vocabulary; because she was polite she would let other children go ahead of her to the block area and never got a chance to play there.  This led to a low mark from the teachers.  The worst moment of all came when the teachers decided she needed to know that Superman and Supergirl weren't real and took it upon themselves to enlighten her with the entire class chiming in.  I hated that school and was so happy when she got to move on to her K-12 school.

The flamenco class was definitely the brightest moment in the week, and she gradually made friends at the nursery school so things lightened up.  The year progressed and I learned that you had to invite the entire class to the birthday party.  I was whining about this to Shauna and she volunteered to dance as the exciting entertainment.  What a genius idea!  It would combine Pinky's two worlds and show the nursery school crowd something new and exotic.

Shauna made the plan, said she would bring a guitarist and a dance partner.  She made Pinky a beautiful dress as her birthday present, and I included  her dance buddies in the party.  This theme set me on fire and I used the polka dots that are common to Spanish traditional dress to dictate the party decorations.  It looked great!  


                                                                                             

Fabulous Shauna

I got a pinata, a cake decorated with a dancer, lemonade and cool party bags.  Twenty-five children said yes and I knew I was actually ready with a perfect party plan.  I figured the dance performance would take about an hour, then cake and ice cream, pinata, and Pass the Parcel would finish off my two hour time frame. I was very pleased with myself.

PRIDE GOETH BEFORE DESTRUCTION

All were assembled and silent as the fantastic stomping, swirling performance started.  This was a revelation for the five year olds - that there was actually an approved of  exercise that required banging, stamping, chattering castanets and drama.  It was a great start, then Shauna and her friends had Pinky join them, the guitarist played a gypsy version of Happy Birthday to You and the trio danced enthusiastically to much applause.  The ensemble gave a group bow and melted into the crowd.  I cantered happily into the kitchen to start food prep and glanced at the digital clock on the stove.

It was a scene from a Hitchcock film.  The clock got bigger and bigger as I realized the performance had taken 15 minutes.  I had asked the crowd to come from two to four.  I had to fill in forty-five empty minutes!!!!  I hustled the food to the tables praying for twenty minutes of grazing, God gave me five.  As we cleared that production up the twenty-five children started to get restive.  My husband rushed out with the pinata.  As everyone else knows, the pinata is virtually indestructible.  I didn't know that.  I hadn't seen one since childhood when they made them from plaster of paris and shattered easily. The party-ers took turns beating and beating and beating it with no results.  Children were getting a little savage, also my frail parents in-law were within whacking distance.  My husband didn't notice that he had positioned the action a mere two feet from the sofa they lounged on.  They trustingly watched the bat get closer and closer (more Hitchcock, more cocktails)....thank goodness an intelligent friend jumped in and slammed the stuffed donkey to the floor creating a lunatic fight for candy.  I NEVER did that again.  And guess what?  that took about five minutes.  They played Pass the Parcel, maybe seven minutes.  

There was still an hour left, so I did the Forbidden For a Reason last ditch plan: opening presents in front of guests.  I managed to retrieve some more time but not enough.  They went crazy, it was Lord of the Flies.  The few adults looked at me like I would take care of it and poured themselves festive alcoholic beverages.  The little demons were everywhere in the tiny apartment.  The boys were standing on the swaying rocking horse, the girls arguing over the presents. I started praying to new gods and finally one of them heard me.  I was sent a pair of type A get there early parents who rang the doorbell and took over the crazy.  At long last they all left.  

I thought ten hours had gone by but it was only two;  I poured myself that festive beverage,
size XXXL.  

Lesson Learned:  Don't make any party longer than an hour and a half until they are over twenty-one.
I love opening the presents after the guests leave.  There's no awful moment of envy or shame for not bringing something grand, no distress about re-gifting or duplication, and it gives the receiver the opportunity to learn how to write a thank you note.  All good.  

Vodka tastes very good with pink lemonade. 

Pass the Parcel is a version of Hot Potato and you have to be watchful so that every child is guaranteed a prize, or else.

Old Fashioned Plaster Piñata directions

Pass the Parcel in Action

BIG FOUR

Four was indeed a big year for Pinky.  She graduated from being a Pink underclassman at Eaton Square School, and became a full day Blue student.  She loved it and so did I.  This was not just babysitting, but a full curriculum of English, Math, Science, Art, Music (they played recorders so learned musical notation), Sports, Dance, and, I kid you not, silver polishing.  She was already reading chapter books and showing early signs of her twisted sense of humor and writing skills.

We had attended many posh children's parties, but none compared to Boodle Lowe's.  My best mom friend, Jane Massey, mother of Pinky's best friend, Eric, and I decided we would impose ourselves on the event as there seemed to be a select cadre of mothers drinking champagne.  Usually you were dismissed at drop off and we ignored that. We wanted to be there in order to snoop on the house, a classical mansion on the outside converted to an Italian Villa on the inside complete with interior courtyard.  Pretty amazing in a 90's excess way.  We didn't know anyone else, so we stayed together and made envious and snide comments, hopefully unheard.
There were long tables in the courtyard set up with a fantastic feast, and the nannies stood behind their charge's chairs like footmen.  Topiary were in limestone pots and saturated colors on the walls to evoke Tuscany.

An Important Piece of Information

Many Americans believe that the English do everything better than we do, are paragons of political correctness, and that we are ignorant peasants in their august presence.  This is absolutely not true.  We are way ahead of them in a multitude of ways.  While we lived there only one beach in the British Isles was open for swimming, all the rest polluted and closed.  Lead free gas wasn't introduced until the 90's, we had it in the 70's.  Healthy eating was accidental; if possible the English would eat dessert for every meal.

Usually there would be a moderate and random amount of sweets at a birthday but Boodle's was fit for a prince and his court.  Before we even saw the cake there were dishes of jello, little sausages, many flavors of potato chips, big candy bars, coca cola or Ribena, and fairy cakes, the Brit version of a cupcake.  Then the ice cream arrived and on it's heels the splendid Cake Decorated in an Ornate Zoo Theme.  Nannies kept order and the tiny gluttons feasted and feasted.  Just before the sugar coma took effect children and nannies were ushered to one of the formal rooms where they watched a fantastic puppet show which included Punch & Judy.
  
We did not invent excess.  My Puritan forefathers were screaming in my head, 

What are they doing??? Unbelievable waste and indulgence!!!   When you think of the children starving around the world!!! They will be sick, ruined forevermore....

And they LOVED IT!!!  The party bag was equally extraordinary with a Liberty House beanie animal and even more candy.

Jane and I were fit to be tied.  No moment of schadenfreude to make us feel better, just a new impossibly high bar to live up to. Dang.

 

A Pale Shadow of Boodle's

This is why I caved in and hired a much less grand and less expensive caterer to do the fourth birthday party.  And I LOVED it! 

I didn't have to be the police, Beano the Bear did that as well as lead the well behaved children in games and songs.  The theme was Teddy Bear's Picnic and every child brought their favorite bear.  The bears sat at their own tea table and looked on as Pinky and her gang sat down to their charming individual boxed meal.  It was in a white pastry box tied with a red bow and when opened, in a checkered napkin nest, was an orange peel basket filled with raspberry jello, little tea sandwiches cut out in bear shapes, cookies and crisps.  It may not have been a royal feast but it was an entrancing one.  And the cake was wonderful.  A square table with bears all around and tiny cups and saucers all made of marzipan.  A really nice thing about England is the pride the artisans take in their products and they have an audience that recognizes quality.  Consequently it's possible to have some pretty wonderful things without breaking the bank.

 
I learned from this party not to do everything myself and most of the time I follow that rule.  In my case it has a habit of liberating me to be crazier and more complicated which might have backfired now and then.


 Special note:

Childhood friends Isobel and Phoebe Waller-Bridge have distinguished themselves as young adults  with their incredible talents.

L to R, Phoebe, Isobel, Pinky

Phoebe Now

Wow

Iso Now

Wow