For those of you dying to know, our dinner party went well. House was clean, the new toilet seats–bamboo–were installed. The good wine flowed, mostly supplied by one of our guests, who knows from good wine. A dozen of us were drinking it, and we managed to hold consumption to a mere ten bottles. I had my share. The biggest advantage to having the party at your house? You don't have to drive home afterward, so you can do more than two glasses.
The shrimp and salmon were cooked well, if I do say so myself. I did the shrimp, my wife the salmon. I made cocktail sauce, she did tartar sauce, both with a bit of punch. Mine was pretty good; hers was better.
The attendees supplied the sides, which ranged from rice and bread to salads and desserts, one of which was a kind of pound cake/coffee cake thing which made you gain weight just looking at it.
There was a make-your-own dessert bar, which included cake, chocolate, fruit, and various kinds of frozen sherberts, including blood orange.
I spilled the Melita full of wet coffee grounds, the only disaster of the evening, but no harm, so no foul.
Once the food was eaten, we let the dogs in, and they behaved reasonably well.
One of our friends brought preview copies of her new novel and passed them around, an unexpected treat.
One of the couples was enjoying their 57th wedding anniversary.
We started early, folks ran out of steam about midnight, and a fine time seemed to be had by all.
We mostly managed to avoid talking about how interesting the times have become. You know, war, famine, pestilence, death, like that. In case you have been doing your imitation of Patrick the starfish on Sponge Bob and living under a rock, all those things have been surging to the front of late.
With any luck, by the time it rolls around to be our turn again, the times will have become less interesting ...