HENRY G. ’s shopping-mall outlets, “Lions and Tigers ’n’ Things”; all Oz-copyrighted merchandise; and Toto, too.
The Herald Co. © 1999 The Post-Standard. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.
Martha Stewart’s Last Supper
You are cordially invited to a
Going-Away Dinner
for a truly Special Guest.
Casual attire. Sunset.
Please, no Romans.
·
C ocktail hour starts at 6:30 in the Garden. For easier parking, I’ve parted the small lake next to my house, using common household trash bags and a hair drier. The forsythia has been sculpted into zoo animals, lined up two by two, leading to the ark. Although it’s April, I’ve removed the swimmingpool cover, just in case the Messiah wants to show off.
I’ll have apostles arrive a half hour early. That way they can sign the “Good Luck” card and don their name tags, which I have shaped with everyday cookie cutters to resemble Easter bunnies. At this time we can set some important ground rules.(Smoking? Choice of music? Designated drivers?) Also, it will ease my mind to make sure no one intends to embarrass our Guest of Honor by hiring a surprise belly dancer or singer in a chicken suit.
With twelve worshipers and just one Savior, occasionally you’ll find somebody off in a corner, feeling hurt. That could lead to betrayal. So I’ll spend time talking with each guest. What are his hobbies? How is his book coming? Aside from Jesus, who are his idols? And I’ll act interested, even if all he wants to talk about is the long, boring mule ride in.
Believe it or not, I’ve found one way to liven any party is the video camera. I’ll ask the shyest disciple—Luke, I suppose—to play “talk-show host” and conduct interviews. (And I’ll write up some silly questions, such as, “Did you know we substituted your regular coffee with Folgers Instant?”) By speed-dubbing the original cassette, I’ll send everyone home with a souvenir. (Also, knowing he’s been captured on tape, Peter should think thrice before claiming he wasn’t here tonight.)
I’ll serve red zinfandel, chilled with snowballs from last Christmas that I stored in my freezer for just this occasion. For appetizers, the men can feast on a tray of Alise-Sainte-Reine, Brie, and Camembert. I call it “Cheeses of Nazareth.”
Whether it’s a plague of locusts or a hollandaise that has curdled, you can always expect some lastminute crisis. But no matter what happens, I won’t ask our Guest of Honor to intervene. This is His night off.
At sunset, I’ll herd our flock into the dining room. For place settings, I’ve made three-inch-high slate tablets, engraved with each apostle’s name, hometown, and one of the evening’s wacky “Commandments.” (
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wine!
) I’ve saved precious chiseling time by forging one iron template that says
“Thou shalt not”
and then adding the remaining words to each slate later.
In keeping with the Guest’s low-key theme, I’ll bite my lip and forgo a lavish menu of culinary delights. Instead, I’ll simply serve Caesar salad and small specialty pizzas, baked in my wood-fired oven, garnished with each person’s choice of toppings (which is one of the first questions I asked when they arrived).
But for dessert, let’s indulge ourselves with one last temptation: homemade strawberry tartlets, drizzled with a generous helping of chocolate fudge. They will come to us in a covered crib, floating on the small brook that I’ve built into the parlor.
Of course, Jesus has indicated—against my betterwishes—that He intends to gird Himself with a towel and wash everybody’s feet. So be it. But beforehand, I’ll run his terry cloth for five minutes in the dryer, making it toasty and soft. And into each water basin I’ll add a wedge of fresh lemon, which will have everyone’s souls whispering “Hallelujah.”
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I’ll let the party run until “whenever,” making sure no
The Herald Co. © 1999 The Post-Standard. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.
Martha Stewart’s Last Supper
You are cordially invited to a
Going-Away Dinner
for a truly Special Guest.
Casual attire. Sunset.
Please, no Romans.
·
C ocktail hour starts at 6:30 in the Garden. For easier parking, I’ve parted the small lake next to my house, using common household trash bags and a hair drier. The forsythia has been sculpted into zoo animals, lined up two by two, leading to the ark. Although it’s April, I’ve removed the swimmingpool cover, just in case the Messiah wants to show off.
I’ll have apostles arrive a half hour early. That way they can sign the “Good Luck” card and don their name tags, which I have shaped with everyday cookie cutters to resemble Easter bunnies. At this time we can set some important ground rules.(Smoking? Choice of music? Designated drivers?) Also, it will ease my mind to make sure no one intends to embarrass our Guest of Honor by hiring a surprise belly dancer or singer in a chicken suit.
With twelve worshipers and just one Savior, occasionally you’ll find somebody off in a corner, feeling hurt. That could lead to betrayal. So I’ll spend time talking with each guest. What are his hobbies? How is his book coming? Aside from Jesus, who are his idols? And I’ll act interested, even if all he wants to talk about is the long, boring mule ride in.
Believe it or not, I’ve found one way to liven any party is the video camera. I’ll ask the shyest disciple—Luke, I suppose—to play “talk-show host” and conduct interviews. (And I’ll write up some silly questions, such as, “Did you know we substituted your regular coffee with Folgers Instant?”) By speed-dubbing the original cassette, I’ll send everyone home with a souvenir. (Also, knowing he’s been captured on tape, Peter should think thrice before claiming he wasn’t here tonight.)
I’ll serve red zinfandel, chilled with snowballs from last Christmas that I stored in my freezer for just this occasion. For appetizers, the men can feast on a tray of Alise-Sainte-Reine, Brie, and Camembert. I call it “Cheeses of Nazareth.”
Whether it’s a plague of locusts or a hollandaise that has curdled, you can always expect some lastminute crisis. But no matter what happens, I won’t ask our Guest of Honor to intervene. This is His night off.
At sunset, I’ll herd our flock into the dining room. For place settings, I’ve made three-inch-high slate tablets, engraved with each apostle’s name, hometown, and one of the evening’s wacky “Commandments.” (
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wine!
) I’ve saved precious chiseling time by forging one iron template that says
“Thou shalt not”
and then adding the remaining words to each slate later.
In keeping with the Guest’s low-key theme, I’ll bite my lip and forgo a lavish menu of culinary delights. Instead, I’ll simply serve Caesar salad and small specialty pizzas, baked in my wood-fired oven, garnished with each person’s choice of toppings (which is one of the first questions I asked when they arrived).
But for dessert, let’s indulge ourselves with one last temptation: homemade strawberry tartlets, drizzled with a generous helping of chocolate fudge. They will come to us in a covered crib, floating on the small brook that I’ve built into the parlor.
Of course, Jesus has indicated—against my betterwishes—that He intends to gird Himself with a towel and wash everybody’s feet. So be it. But beforehand, I’ll run his terry cloth for five minutes in the dryer, making it toasty and soft. And into each water basin I’ll add a wedge of fresh lemon, which will have everyone’s souls whispering “Hallelujah.”
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I’ll let the party run until “whenever,” making sure no