Rimarama: 1, Roast: 0

In case anyone is interested, I emerged victorious over my old foe, the pork loin yesterday.

Unfortunately, I was in too much of a tizzy just prior to serving the culinary masterpiece to make any photographic evidence of it.

But tell me, gentle readers - does hostessing stop sucking less once the majority of your dinner guests are able to cut their own food up and successfully guide it mouthwards ninety-nine percent of the time? When they can restrain from flipping their plates over their heads, or from falling apart if the meat happens to be touching the potatoes? Stay seated for longer than five seconds at a time, say?

I'm learning there's a good reason why my grandmother never seemed like the happiest of campers during the holidays, and why my mom used to always choke up in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner, then run outside for a cigarette breath of fresh air.

Because between ignoring palpable family tensions, cutting up meat into bite-sized pieces, wiping sticky little hands and mouths, refereeing disputes over who gets the D0ra cup, and running back and forth from the kitchen for special requests, I had about five minutes to scarf down my repas. And by the time I finished cleaning up, the par-tay was all but over.

I want to accept the family hostessing baton graciously and run with flair. But if truth be told, I really miss the old kids' table days, when my only responsibility was . . . well, to not flip my plate over my head.