Füd Court Second Anniversary Party

My First Second Anniversary
by Magistrate Tavee

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I am paltry. A freshly unseasoned member of the judiciary. A meager three reviews under this 29-inch belt. But I had been summoned. By the founding fathers, the giants upon whose shoulders I now stand. To celebrate two years of history still in the making amidst the peninsula air that treats you like fried ice cream.

I arrived at the Commodore Hotel. Great service and cheap rates, and one of those old fashioned elevators (better described as a lift) whose slow double-door service is quaint only on first use. Upon recognizing my name and magistrate status, the front desk offered me the entire top floor of the hotel. I declined, preferring not to accept any special consideration.

Landers is a bright and cheery street, and home to Judge Vardigan's and Ask Andy's palatial estate. Perfect for a supreme court session. And there I was, mingling with my makers. Judge McClure, replete with straw hat and patterned shirt, had the air of a Filipino cowboy on sabbatical. Judge Turner attended to the vintage barbeque with the intensity and charisma of an ER surgeon. Or one of those "Scrubs" guys. Judge Vardigan moved through the crowd with a stealthy ease, offering poetic insight, Red Sox trivia, and collectible Füd Court foam wieners and bibs to the delighted masses. Ask Andy wore shorts, and best embodied the day's gaiety with his winning smile and boyish charm.

The sun welcomed the steady stream of guests. This was a "pot luck" affair, and true to the international reach of this court's rulings, before long there was a world of füd stacked in the kitchen from those who had flown across the globe for this very occasion: appetizing delights from China, poultry from Lebanon, balls of meats from Sweden, fruity wines from Spain, buttermilk biscuits from Kentucky and so, so much more.

There was an eager dog named Murphy, a frightened feline named Lou Whitaker, a curious little boy named Jesse, though all were never in the same room at the same time. There was carousing, lots of talk, and even more eating. I think I might have even witnessed some binging, but in retrospect might be confusing it with gorging. There was a fine selection of music, though I did not see dancing, save for little Jesse, whose Detroit Rock City performance made Jack White of the White Stripes look like James Taylor.

There was an historic game of post-modern croquet involving assassins, majority rules, extreme prejudice, a tiny hat, natural and unnatural obstacles, and even a "poo zone" (courtesy of Murphy). All around us, birds, distracted by the raging drama of sport, haplessly plummeted to earth, like rain christening the game's unlikely champion: yours truly. There was more, but then I'd have to make it up. Soon enough, the evening was upon us, and one by one, the sated guests stumbled out the door and went about their merry way.

Yes, the magic was palpable that day, and would make itself evident throughout the Landers Street household for days to come. In the waning moments of the night, surrounded by Judges McClure, Turner, and Vardigan, I noticed a stirring inside. In the presence of such greatness, I realized that I had been initiated -- a true member of the highest court in America -- and I was moved. I felt like a king, bloated with such bountiful fortune and feast, and I headed back to the Commodore to take a seat on my throne.

Notes in the Aftermath
by Judge Vardigan

About 10 days after the party, special counsel Ask Andy came home for lunch to find two suited men shuffling about near our front door. Fearing the worst (David's Deli door-to-door missionaries), he asked them what they wanted.

“We’re from the health inspection board, investigating a complaint about a food service business being run out of your apartment.”

Ask Andy quickly explained Füd Court and our little party and the three of them shared a big belly laugh. The suited men walked on, hopefully to investigate a legitimate complaint.

The Court sincerely hopes that none of you who provided füd for the potluck will come under similar scrutiny. Imagine, if you will, the following scenario:

A rapping on the door at 11 p.m. A loyal reader-eater in pajamas answers it. Two men in little health inspector hats stand there.

Loyal Reader-Eater: “Why, hello.”
Health Inspectors: “We’d like to investigate your icebox.”
Reader-Eater: “I see. Please come in. I have nothing to hide.”
Inspectors carefully open freezer, peering in through the frosty fog.
Inspectors: “Do you sell these Banquet Chicken Pot Pies to the public?”
Reader-Eater: “Why, no.”
Inspectors: “Do you sell them to yourself?”
Reader-Eater: “Well, no, I buy them once, at the grocery store, and that seems enough.”
Inspectors: “Mmm-hmm. What of these Steak-Um steak-like sandwich slices -- do you, for instance, set up a card table on the corner and serve them to your neighbors?”
Reader-Eater: “No, just to myself. Inside, here at the kitchen table, or in front of the TV.”
Inspectors: “Fair enough. Let’s keep it that way. Good day.” The end!

The dialogue above represents the Court-recommended manner in which a reader-eater should handle such a situation. We've got your backs.

Finally, the judges would like to give a shout-out to Sharon of the Reel CaféBakery, who provided cookies and the miraculous Challah Dogs. And thanks to the paltry one himself, Magistrate Tavee, for the comprehensive chronicle of our 2nd Anniversary.