Bagels

At least twice a year I invite the family for brunch, and at least twice a year Dear Husband and I argue about how many bagels should be procured. I always want more, he always insists on fewer. Years of bagel leftovers have convinced me that one-per-person is certainly too many, but calculating the optimal quantity has thus far eluded me as well. Nonetheless, Exasperated Husband has failed to convince me to yield to his estimates.

As much as I love a good bagel, it’s actually the fear of not having enough food on the table that spurs me to overestimate. One time, early in my brunch-hosting escapades, while I was running between the kitchen and the table, to my dismay, all trays and platters were cleared of every morsel and crumb as if blown away by a mysterious table-sized hurricane. In my mimosa-induced stupor, all I could do was offer my guests more coffee. Embarrassed, I vowed to never find myself in this situation again.

(Incidentally, as I was cleaning up my leftover-less kitchen that day, I did discover a bowl of salad that I forgot to set out, hiding in the back of the fridge. We ate that salad for days!)

Rational Husband, however, isn’t swayed by my irrational shame. He just begs me to get fewer bagels. Every. Single. Time. Here’s how it goes:

Him: “So how many bagels this time?”

Me: “There are 20 of us, so… 16?”

Him, sighing: “How about 12.”

Me: “That’s not enough.”

Him, sighing more: “Fine. Kids will eat them for a week. What kind of bagels do you want?”

Me: “You know, a variety.”

Him: “Let’s just get sesame bagels. Everyone will eat them.”

Me: “That’s so boring! We need a few poppy and definitely pumpernickel.”

Him: “Pumpernickel? Who’s gonna eat a pumpernickel bagel??”

Me: “I dunno…. My sister! She loves a pumpernickel bagel!”

On the morning of our latest brunch I learn that a few people aren’t able to make it after all, so I concede to 12 bagels. Resigned Husband procures them: 6 sesame, 2 poppy, 2 plain, 2 pumpernickel.

As our family files in, I lay out the foodstuffs. There’s the three quiches, the potatoes, the smoked salmon, the bagels, of course, with freshly whipped cream cheese, a heaping bowl of tomato salad, a root vegetable salad, farro with fancy mushrooms, a bit of sliced cucumbers and radishes, and lastly the scones, the little berry tarts, and fresh fruit.

I listen to the comforting chatter, while Hospitable Husband ensures that not a glass or a cup is empty. Mimosas are flowing and faces are glowing from the early infusion of bubbly. I’m eyeing plates, consolidating platters, checking the fridge again for something I might have missed in a far corner. Pineapples, wedges of cheese, and trays of tomatoes are standing at attention, ready to jump onto a cutting board at the slightest evidence of sparseness.

Then, while I nonchalantly survey the bagel situation, I see two shiny pumpernickel noshes winking back at me, still untouched, my sister’s place pumpernickel-less. I’ll never hear the end of this, I think. I must eat a bagel, I think. Except I’m so full on bottomless mimosas provided by Attentive Husband, that I can hardly stomach the perfectly pillowy-and-chewy pumpernickel bagel.

Later, as the guests say their goodbyes, I manage to pack a few leftovers for them. “Ah, yes I’ll take a slice of quiche. No, not the bagel.”

As Helpful Husband clears the brunch remnants, I swoop in to get the last five treacherous bagels out of his line of sight. None of them are sesame, one and a half are pumpernickel. And I really do feel like I’ll get away with it this time, until he finds the bag in the morning.

Guess what’s for breakfast?