My Dream Lunch

I just wish he’d sit down long enough to eat something. When I’d invited Douglas Adams, author of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” to join me for lunch on my outside patio that cool spring day, I imagined having an intelligent conversation with him over a long leisurely meal. Instead, what I got was a hyperactive furniture-climbing writer who talked nonsense nonstop, not letting me get a word in edgewise. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that diminutive actor fellow who keeps popping up on late night TV shows inhabited his body.

“Sit, sit. Eat something,” I called out to him, sounding so much like a Jewish mother that I looked around to see who was saying these words. Next thing I’d be doing, if I weren’t careful, would be telling him he’s meshuganah or crazy. “Please, I made this luncheon especially for you.”

He finally wandered over to the table that I’d spent hours arranging, keeping in mind while doing it that he came from England. My mind kept repeating, “Don’t panic,” a line I often borrowed from his most famous book. This mantra had seen me through many hectic times over the years, but I started to wonder if it would work today. I definitely was panicking as Douglas stood over the table, scowling as he scrutinized the many delicious dishes I’d place before him.

A small towel, the necessary item I knew for traveling through the galaxy, rested beside each of our large plates. Other than that, however, the table items were of earthly origin. To start the meal, I had ladled out my famous cream of pea soup. I then watched it congeal, growing cold. Adams walked back and forth during this time, repeating lines from a poem recently written by a Vorgon. My head hurt just listening to him.

Next on the menu was my main course, a perfectly cooked Beef Wellington with assorted vegetables. Being English, he should have liked this dish. Again, it stayed on the table, cooling and uneaten. He instead decided that Whiskers, my aged and mostly deaf cat, was the most fascinating creature he’d ever met. Unfortunately, the bad-tempered black feline didn’t share a similar fascination for the human. I ended providing Band-Aids instead of broccoli for lunch.

I had one last chance to impress this man with my culinary skill and maybe get him to sit and talk with me for a bit. Proudly, I carried out from the kitchen the two large brandy snifters containing my New England version of the English truffle. The layer of crumbled ladyfingers on the bottom of the glasses soaked up the sugared juice of the fresh strawberries. The next layer consisted of vanilla custard. Fresh whipped cream topped this confection after I drizzled it with my best sherry. No one in the past had ever resisted this dessert, but to my chagrin, Douglas Adams became the first.

As I sat there almost in tears after an hour of trying to feed and entertain one of my favorite authors, all I got as he left was the comment, “So long, and thanks for all the fish!” Next time, I’m going to invite someone normal, an ordinary man, someone who can speak clearly, so I understand him.

Do you think the Governor of California would like to share a meal with me?