When I was younger, I imagined that I would have this big, fabulous life where I would have a fancy house and throw dinner parties where everyone would dress up in their best black dresses and pearls. I imagined myself knowing everything about wine and being able to speak intelligently on the subject. Dinner would be some elegant food served on gleaming white china platters with my best silver. We’d drink out of nothing but the finest crystal. The vision was so clear, but for some reason, my life didn’t turn out quite like that.
My actual dinner parties tend to be sort of haphazard affairs. Friends come over with their children. We have grown to the point that we can’t fit everyone around a single table. No one is dressed beautifully unless the kids have been playing dress up. The plates are sometimes paper. The silverware is mismatched. I never feel like I know enough about wine to serve it with confidence. And my fine crystal is a random assortment of wine glasses collected from Midwestern wineries in an attempt to interject some more adult activities into our road trips. (Or perhaps that has something to do with me needing a little bolstering after the joy of being in the car for multiple hours with children.)
I have a feeling that my reality is far closer to who I am than the vision was. I own black dresses and pearls, but tend to prefer black t-shirts and purling when I knit. When I attempt to serve wine instead of beer, I have to refer to wine guides like these to tell me what I should buy: Chardonnay and Semillon. At least I have the food thing handled.
Dinner with friends always depends on who is coming over. With a bit of warning, it’s easy enough to whip up Chicken and these dumplings or Chicken New Boston. However, sometimes you just want something a little bit more. You want to be able to sit back with a glass of wine and imagine all the kids are eccentric millionaires with art collections that talk about about plays they’ve seen, not cartoons. As you sip, you pretend their witty comments did not start with the words “Knock, knock” or end with the word “poop”. This Elegant Wild Rice Stuffing aids in the dream. 
Elegant Wild Rice Stuffing is almost as simple as stuffing gets. I think we all have heard by now that you shouldn’t actually stick the stuffing in the bird because the bird and stuffing both need to get to proper temperatures to be safe. So when you make this, ignore that part of the directions. It bakes up nicely in a 2 quart casserole dish. If you like that extra meat juice flavor, simply pour some of the meat drippings onto the stuffing and mix thoroughly. Of course this is better with fresh oysters and fresh mushrooms, but if all you have access to is canned, make sure to use good bacon. 
My kids ate this without complaining. They even decided they liked oysters. They may have been trying to impress Nana and Papa. Your mileage my vary on this one. I thought it was delicious and will absolutely make it again. I even know the right wine to serve with it now.
My mom used to lose her keys all the time when we were teenagers. It was a regular occurrence. I don’t remember when she started to pray to St. Anthony, but it became the default. Whenever something went missing, my mom would ask if we’d prayed to St. Anthony. (Except it was common enough that we just called it “talking to Tony”)(We aren’t even Catholic). More often than not, the answer would be “no”. To which she always reminded us that we should be doing that and perhaps we shouldn’t bother her until we had. This is not to imply in anyway that my mom was not sympathetic to whatever it was we had lost. She was, but she didn’t have time to keep track of all of our stuff on top of everything else she had to do. And besides, like I say to my kids all the time, “if you put your stuff away properly…” We all know how it goes and if you don’t, come be my Yoda and teach me how to improve. Anyway, back to my mom’s keys. She would seriously lose them all the time. It wasn’t because she wasn’t organized, but we know how women’s purses are. And when you are in and out of the car and it’s winter and kids and chaos and life. Even if I didn’t get it then, I do now. 
It was around that same time that my sister and I had the opportunity to go to Italy. I am still grateful for that opportunity. While there, we visited Padua. (St. Anthony is from Padua.) During the visit to the church dedicated to St. Anthony, (who is the patron saint of all sorts of 
My friend texted back later to say that she did find her keys. I tried telling her about St. Anthony. She said that Lutherans don’t do that. (I’m going to take credit for invoking the name of St. Anthony for her.) 
This recipe grabbed me from the first time I saw it. There is nothing in it that I don’t like. Rosemary, maple syrup, mustard, bacon, sour cream and lima beans. Yes, please! But that’s not a guarantee that the recipe is not going to fail. (See 
Rather than dwelling on the melancholy of passing time, I’m going to grab another ripe tomato and make this salad again.
