Of all the things I'm going to miss, I'll miss his cooking most.
My houseguests - my cousin, his wife, their three children (ages 2, 4 and 6) and their Swedish au pair - just left after eight days. As I closed the front door, my roof sighed and settled, a little sadly, back on the house.
I'll be honest. When my cousin, Steve, first asked if he and his family could come for an extended visit and escape the Chicago summer, my first reaction was, "I'm so sorry! Everyone here has swine flu and the house is under quarantine." Instead, I heard my mouth say, "Of course!" The rest of my body braced for the reality of 10 people under one roof: his six plus my four.
We got off to a good start. The clan arrived bearing four Chicago-style pizzas ready to bake, and a case of wine. The good start ended after dinner. Steve asked to see a copy of my latest book, "House of Havoc." He thumbed through it and turned straight to the chapter titled "Dear Houseguest: Please Come and Go." He started reading aloud.
"Oh, no!" I hollered, horrified. "Don't read that!"
"I think I should," he said, holding it above my head.
He read about how annoying houseguests can be, how they mooch off your time, money, food and space, take your favorite magazines to their bathroom, drink the last of your milk, and ... "Give me that!" I snatched the book.
The problem with being honest and published is people can dangle you on the point of your own sword.
Whether he already knew how to be a great guest (probably) or he heeded the suggestions in my book (maybe) I will never know, and mortification keeps me from asking. But for whatever reason, I've never had such great houseguests.
For three of the five nights that our guests ate at home with us, Steve cooked. His meals were way better than the two I made. Marni: tacos and lasagna. Steve: chicken breasts stuffed with spinach, feta and pine nuts; mahi mahi with mango salsa and grilled asparagus; slow-roasted barbecue pork ribs that infused the house with scented expectation.
Every night he and his wife helped with dishes. Every morning I came downstairs to the coffee on and the dishwasher emptied. Every day, the gang went on outings - rafting, hiking, to the rodeo - and the kids brought me souvenirs - a palm full of pebbles, a wildflower.
And now they're gone, and I'm writing a chapter for my next book: "Dear Steve: Please Come Back."
In past columns, I've laid down rules for how to be a good host and a bad guest. Now here's how to make your hosts sad to see you go:
Pitch in. Do the dishes. Set the table. Take out the trash. "Become a member of the family," says my friend Sandy Coughlin, a blogger and author of the just-released The Reluctant Entertainer - Every Woman's Guide to Simple and Gracious Hospitality (Bethany House
Don't come empty handed. If the host has small children or pets, Coughlin likes to go to the Dollar Store and pick up toys and pet treats. For adults, she brings a goody basket of jam or salsa.
Cook. Right when you arrive, offer to cook a meal or two during your stay. If you can't cook, get pre-made gourmet dishes from the market.
Go out. Thoughtful guests use the host's house as a crash pad, and take off on day trips. They use their own cars and don't expect hosts to squire them around.
Restock, restore. Before you leave and during your stay, replenish what you wipe out.
www.marnijameson.com
