After they left, I tried to figure out their secret. They arrived bearing gifts of favorite foods. Despite spirited WWF-like Male Check-Wrestling bouts, they picked up more than their share of restaurant tabs. When they left, they gave us a thoughtful thank-you present.

OK, so, one sure way to a host's heart is bribery.

Yet there was more to the week's overall good vibe than what bribery alone could accomplish. If they woke up before we did, they made coffee and bought doughnuts. After dinner, they helped clean up and wash dishes.

Another sure way, then, is slave labor.

More, even, than all of the bribery and the labor, though, was a general attitude. They were at once enthusiastic, self-sufficient, and honest. They loved doing things, with and without us, and when they were tired of all that traipsing around, they said so. As a result, we all knew where we stood.

And yet they almost blew it on the last day. The husband reached into the freezer for some ice and a favorite bowl, chilling to be used for whipped cream later, tumbled out and broke into pieces on the floor.

We glanced at each other for a second, an unspoken "uh-oh" hanging in the air. This was our test. Would he be adequately apologetic? Would I be properly forgiving? Or would we lock emotional horns, both of us stewing inside over words either said or not said.

"That," I said gravely, "was an heirloom that goes back generations in my in-laws' family."

He looked at the pieces.

"I could maybe put it back … ."

"Joking, dude," I interrupted, chuckling. "It's just a bowl. We have plenty.

Toss it out."

He swept it into the trash can, and it became not a symbol of an already bad week, but the tiny flaw that proves the authenticity of a rare gem.