Alright, enough already.

I don't think personally I will be able to keep up with any kind of "Express" lifestyle. We had friends drop in today, and I started off gamely enough, but lost steam midway through the afternoon when my junior visitors kept pelting me with requests for juice and milk and cake and peanut butter. They were like locusts, descending upon my kitchen, grabbing an orange here, an apple there. Swiping graham crackers and guzzling water from the fridge dispenser.
At one point, I was trying to cut up a slice of watermelon for myself before I might keel over from a precipitous drop in blood sugar. Three different children managed to steal my food. I'd cut up a slice into a bowl, and another child would wander up and look at me like little Oliver Twist. I'd hand over the bowl, and then start over again for myself.
The gathering started off swell with me offering a thirst-quenching pitcher of water with slices of oranges & cucumbers. So refreshing! Try it! It's what they serve in Calistoga, where people go to relax and rejuvenate themselves in the hot spring waters.
I then made a very easy dish which most people love, but some snooty people have said it makes them want to gag just at the thought of it. It's an old party dish I garnered in Grosse Pointe, where not only are the residents generally cheap, but they also generally don't cook or eat very much (they prefer to drink).

-Chicken
-Can of whole cranberry sauce
-Packet of dry onion soup mix
-Half bottle of creamy French salad dressing

You combine the above ingredients in a pot and let everything simmer until the chicken is cooked through.
Next, I made rice with chicken broth, and green bean casserole with Cream of Mushroom soup.
Granted, this is not Larousse Gastronomique, but it's good food and it seemed befitting of a breezy, cool fall day here.
The children were sugared-out from having earlier raided my supply of jelly bellies (left over from Harry's birthday party) and a giant chocolate chip cookie that Harry won at school Friday during his school carnival cake walk.
So, once the food was ready, I bossily sat them all down at the table and placed bowls of hot food in front of them.
Oh, the faces! Sulky and brooding, noses crinkled. I could see my popularity plummeting with each passing second as the steam rose from their little dishes.
And that's when I began to lose all graciousness as a hostess.
"Can I have a peanut butter sandwich?" asked one of my sons.
"No!" I answered sternly.
"What is this?" asked someone else's son.
"It's chicken!" And rice! And green bean casserole!" I shouted. "It's GOOD!" This last statement was issued more in the tone of a challenge.
"Can I have some cake?" begged a young voice.
"No!" I barked.
The table fell silent and I could feel their death rays shooting at me from across the room.
I knew what they were thinking.
This sucks. We're never coming back here again.
Babies.
I felt smugly triumphant for about 15 minutes, sort of like an old orphanage matron who would teach her charges to be accepting and grateful for their hot gruel. And then I begrudgingly admitted that I really didn't want them to go hungry, even if they were slightly spoiled as a generation and making me feel like a short-order cook. My concession was to dole out cheese sticks, crackers, and apple slices.
The adults were happy with the food and wine, and probably happy to have a brief respite from the food-battle frontline. I say brief because you know they're at home right now making plain pasta for their hungry children. I can feel my ears burning.
Maybe I can only do express-like entertaining if I pace myself. Maybe people popping in left and right is just too much for me, even with food made largely from canned goods.
I tried, but frankly, I am wondering if I have the constitution for this. I'm off to read my book now. And I really don't want to see anyone until, say, Thanksgiving.