Some of my fondest memories come from mealtime moments, and that’s really saying something because most of the time I was too anxiety-ridden to eat. Yet it’s not What is on the table as much as it is Who is at the table. Okay, never mind, half the time it’s exactly about what’s on the table. Most of what I put on the table before G-d invented crockpots was thanks to the faithful service of my never-empty aluminum roasting pan. It was like the Genie’s lamp. You put a little food into it and an hour later you ladled out enough to feed the block. That’s exactly what I did with it; I fed the block. What you should know about this magical pan is that it was made by Magnalite, a company that produced heavy-duty “spun” aluminum cookware. The thing was at least a quarter inch thick, conducted heat like nobody’s business, was good for cooking everything either in the oven or on the stovetop, and eventually leached enough aluminum into our systems that we were all declared doomed. I was forced to give mine away, something I regret to this day since I’m doomed anyway. But before that happened, my magical aluminum-leaching oval roaster saved the day more than once. Take, for example, the great Escondido flood of 1978. Our house was the only one with power for a day or two. As soon as I realized I could not save my neighbor’s kitchen from the onrushing waters by standing in front of it holding a 2x4 piece of plywood, I retreated to my own kitchen, threw everything from my refrigerator into the oval roaster and started cooking. When the refrigerator food ran out, I used whatever was in our coffin-sized freezer. By the time that ran out, the water had receded, the power came back on, and the neighbors resumed cooking their own mystery stews. But during those few days, the magic roaster never ran out of something to feed the hordes. Another thing that was swell about this roasting pan was that everything turned out delicious despite the fact that whatever went into it was sans recipe. I used the Old World System. “Ma, how much salt do I add?” “A pinch.” “How much is a pinch?” “I don’t know. Enough so it tastes right.” Cauliflower Egg Soup is a perfect example. Friends were coming for dinner. Soup sounded good. I had cauliflower and hard boiled eggs on hand so I threw them into the magic roaster along with G-d knows what else, until I had eight quarts of creamy yellow lumpy liquid ready to pour into bowls. It was a smash hit, something totally new, tasty, and vaguely vegetarian friendly. They wanted the recipe. “Chop up cauliflower and cut hard boiled eggs into quarters. Then cook them in broth.” “Is that all?” “Oh, and raisins and cream. And maybe some rice; I can’t remember.” “What’s that wonderful seasoning?” “Everything in my spice cabinet.” You get the picture. The magic roaster would giveth and then the magic roaster would taketh away because none of us could ever reproduce the original creation. Later on I resorted to cookbooks, shelves of them, but they presented their own challenge. I may have short term memory issues. I’d prop up a cookbook, set out all the ingredients and then proceed. “Onions, garlic, pepper, salt.” I’d go to the bowl or pan, add the onions and then forget what comes next. So I’d go back and read, “Garlic, pepper, salt.” I’d add the garlic and then forget how much pepper and salt. It took me three times longer to use the cookbook than the magic roasting pan method and the results were just as uneven. To save myself from frustration I now just imagine that I’m going to cook something and never do it. However, I did learn a few lessons about feeding people which I’d like to share. The first is “Food Appears.” I made the mistake of throwing a farewell party for a Tai Chi teacher. What with classmates and soulmates I figured a party of twelve. I cooked for twelve. Then the teacher arrived with all his friends whom he’d invited without telling me because, you know, it was his party. Naturally I panicked and started emptying my freezer of all it contained in a frantic effort to find something to feed the swelling crowd. Wise Carol Ann, not me, another Carol Ann, came into the kitchen and said, “Stop worrying. Food will appear.” Sure enough, the newcomers started ordering pizzas and beer and whatnot and proceeded to have a wonderful time, ignoring the crazed lady who was talking to herself in the kitchen. So yes, Food Appears, assuming you’re living in the land of plenty. Another lesson is “Limit the Wine.” This was learned when I tried to recreate an authentic Italian dinner and started serving wine with the antipasto. I kept pouring through the Minestrone, the Lasagna, and the Tiramisu. By the time the meal was over, all the guests slid off their chairs, crawled toward any available floor space and start snoring. Noticing their prostate, unmoving bodies, I unsteadily fetched every available blanket and tucked them in for the night. Then, just before hitting my own head on the floor, it occurred to me I ought to blow out the candles, which were one-and-a-half seconds away from setting the tablecloth on fire. We all had a cozy nap of about six hours and staggered off to our various real beds knowing mountains of food plus bottles of wine equals an early end to the party. The last lesson I’d like to share with you today is “Vet Your Guests.” That’s not really my phrase. I learned it yesterday from my kinda-sorta daughter. What I really mean is I should never have let my mother sit next to my sister-in-law’s mother-in-law never, ever, for any reason, but especially not at Easter time. I’m not naming names. Let’s say it was Ma and Grandma G, who was a devout Catholic just returned from a church pilgrimage to Rome to see the Pope. Grandma G was hysterically funny. She was one of the best people ever to grace this planet. She deserved far better than what she got at my house. Actually, she deserved far better than what she got in Rome, in Vatican Square. Five minutes before the Pope was scheduled to make his appearance and bless the masses, Grandma G realized she needed to relieve herself so badly that if she stayed in place she’d wet herself, so she dashed for the nearest shelter, took care of business in a brown paper bag, and returned only to discover the Pope had come, blessed, and departed. Recounting this sad story had us wiping our eyes and wheezing with laughter. Then my mother had to open her mouth. Of course she did. “Bernie and I went to the Vatican when we were in Rome. We even took a tour inside and got to see the parade.” I tried to change the conversation, but now that she had everyone’s attention, she replied to Grandma G’s puzzled, “Parade?” “Yes. There were fancy soldiers marching down the hall so we had to move back to make room for them. Then came more fancy men carrying poles on their shoulders and on top of that was a big, you know, what do you call it? Like a piece of wood. With a big chair on it. The king was sitting on the chair.” “King?” Grandma G asked before I could interrupt. “Yes, I could tell he was a king because he was wearing a fancy crown and waving a magic wand.” “Wand?” Grandma G’s mouth was now agape. (Meanwhile, I’m praying hard my mother will stop talking, but no such luck.) “Yes. He was bopping people on their heads with it as he went by. First on this side of the aisle, then on the other side.” (She was making bopping gestures from her left side to her right side and back again as she told this part of the story.) “When he got to me, he leaned forward and bopped me right on the head with his magic wand. I don’t know why he picked me out of all the other people, but he did.” The entire ensemble was silent while Ma beamed in self-satisfaction. What’s a person to do when you learn that the faithful devotee who flew halfway round the world to see the Pope, only to miss him by seconds due to a faulty bladder, was sitting next to the Jewish atheist who got blessed by him in person due to an accident of timing? Here’s what you do: You stand up and say “My, that was fascinating. Now why don’t we all go outside and have a nice stroll around the block to make room for dessert?” Vet your guests, folks, and be sure to have your coats and sweaters ready. Oy vey.