Dear Mudcat Advisor,
I read your column every day, and need some help. As you know, the entertainment season is now upon us, and my husband keeps inviting all these folk people to our house for dinner, to - as he puts it -- "crash", and so on. Apart from the fact that I usually have to reiron the plastic sheets over the furniture when they leave, I do not mind their presence. The last time he did this, I sent a telegram to the Supreme Goddess, Martha Stewart, and she made a few suggestions. When my husband's folk friends arrived imagine their surprise when they were greeted with a table of choice delights! These included:
a bumper coleslaw salad in the main hole of a guitar (the strings acted as excellent slicers), festooned along the frets with parsley;
A cunning statue of John Henry in lime-green jello, holding a hammer dotted with tiny marshmallows;
A sliced meat tray in the shape of Jackie Paper looking for Puff the Magic Dragon;
A linguini dish representing the sound cables cut by Pete Seeger at Newport when Bob Dylan went electric;
and for desert, a little thing of my own, I call Frank Proffiteroles.

My husband looked at me and said, "Are you out of your mind? Beer, and if pushed, nachos."
What should I do, Mudcat Advisor? Should I give in to what he wants, or should I persist in attempting to beautify and glorify folk music in my own way?

Signed,

FRUSTRATED IN THE BURBS