Southern Lady Code: Essays(20)

And then we found a St. John’s jumpsuit. It was velvet! It was form-fitting! It was on sale for $595! I opened the dressing-room door and Karen said, “You look like Jaclyn Smith in Charlie’s Angels!”

I thought we had a winner, but I wanted to make sure.

Karen took a photo and we texted it to my husband.

No answer.

So, we texted it to others. We group-sourced. Gay men liked it. Women liked it. But still no word from my husband. We put the jumpsuit on hold.

When I got home, I asked him why he didn’t text back.

My husband said, “It was hard to tell how you looked from the picture.”

Married to a Southern lady, my husband knows better than to say anything to me that can’t be taken as a compliment. He’d never say he didn’t like the way I looked. So, with the jumpsuit, it was the camera’s fault. It was the overhead lighting’s fault. The black velvet didn’t photograph well. But I knew he didn’t find it attractive.

He said, “You should wear something that shows your legs. You have a black dress, wear that.”

Karen was disappointed that her pick didn’t make the cut but agreed a black dress could be suitable for the party. With metallic high heels, a fun evening bag, and jewelry, I could dress it up.

I thought, Like a Christmas tree.

But the black dress wasn’t going to be as easy as it sounded. It was long-sleeved and crew-necked. It hugged my body and was as warm as a weighted thunder blanket that soothes a nervous dog. It required my one pair of Spanx, which were parked in the back of my lingerie drawer like a chastity belt. And it was a standing dress, not a sitting dress. Nicho’s party was a sit-down supper. But I resolved to wear it, because I didn’t want to shop anymore.

And then, like true love in a rom-com, when I quit looking, a dress found me.

I saw it in a window. The Zara dress was black with a neon-blue shimmer. It had a plunge neck, a ruched waist, below-the-elbow sleeves, and a slit up the leg. It covered what I want covered and flattered my butt. It was from their Disco collection. If I had found it earlier, I could’ve worn it to the Studio 54 party. It was seventy dollars. I bought it without asking anyone’s approval.

The night of Nicho’s party, my husband and I strutted into a Gramercy Park private club like we owned the place. We checked our coats and climbed a winding staircase to find the guest of honor, but he was nowhere to be found because we’d walked into the wrong club. So, down the steps we went, picked up our coats, and on the way to the right club next door, I was able to laugh because I wasn’t wearing shapewear.

“Do-over!” I shouted.

And as we walked into the right place, I felt like my four-year-old self.





TONIGHT WE’RE


            GONNA PARTY


            LIKE IT’S 1979





Every year, more than a hundred people crowd into our two-bedroom Manhattan apartment for a holiday party because I serve what my Alabama grandmother served in the 1970s. Forget sushi platters. The gluten-free can gnaw on mistletoe. I am a Southern lady who’s lived among the Upper East Side elite for my entire middle-aged life, and here’s what I’ve learned: If you can’t join ’em, beat ’em into submission with good old-fashioned gooey goodness. The secret ingredient is never love, it’s mayonnaise. My days of cooking fancy to fit in are over.

Oh, I tried in the beginning. For our first parties, I stuffed mushrooms, blanched asparagus spears, filled puffed pastries, and threaded marinated olives onto toothpicks. I ran my oven at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, cranking out canapés from six p.m. to midnight. Yes, all this was impressive, but I never left my kitchen. My hair never left a bun. And no one remembered anything other than my grandmother’s favorite things: cheese logs, onion dip, mail-order ham, and Nutter Butter snowmen. That’s what guests don’t want to admit that they want to eat.

Nowadays, I pick through flea markets and eBay to find recipes for delicacies just like them in vintage cookbooks.

“Vintage” is Southern Lady Code for dog-eared, with ballpoint notes in the margins. If the title includes Junior League or Women’s Club or the name of a small town; if the pages offer no pictures or seemingly impossible photos of shrimp in a bread loaf or Spam shaped like a circus train; if some of the recipes read “Mrs. So-and-So’s Husband’s Favorite Such-n-Such,” I know I’ve got myself a winner. Cheese logs are found in the appetizer section, listed alphabetically between Bar-B-Q Cups and Coke Salad.

For a Hawaiian Cheese Log: Drain canned crushed pineapple, then wring it out in a dish towel. Add chopped bell pepper. Add Worcestershire sauce. Yes, you need that much cream cheese. Yes, you should wait for it to reach room temperature because there’s no worse way to give yourself tennis elbow. Mix. Shape mixture into a log. Or a candy cane. Or a reindeer’s head. Go nuts. Cover in nuts. Wrap in wax paper. Refrigerate for up to two weeks. The magic words are: Make ahead. The flavors will marry. Orgy is more like it. Yes, it sounds disgusting and doesn’t look much better.

“Is this homemade?” a guest will ask.

What she means is: That looks like a chew toy.

Slather some on a Ritz cracker and choo-choo it toward her mouth. One bite and she’s speaking in a Southern accent. Oh. My. Gawd. One bite and she’s experiencing both salty and sweet; crunchy and soft; tropical and suburban.