Skip to main content

On Throwing a Dinner Party

"What will happen at this party? Anything may happen. A man has just come in who stands charmingly on his head at parties. Perhaps he will stand on his head tonight. I hope that he will stand on his head. That is what people should do at parties of pleasure; it gives parties of pleasure the right note." - Rose Macaulay

Sadly, no one stood on their head at this dinner party. (I watched Patrick very hopefully.) And yet -



I think my desire to throw a dinner party must be linked to my predictable childhood preoccupation with tea parties. But once I saw Babette's Feast (and also Chocolat) I found the urge to feed dear friends at a table with good food, prepared with patience and intention. And Thursday was the perfect day to do it.



I stayed indoors all day, chopping and mixing, slicing, arranging, and setting everything in place. The menu was supposed to be light and vibrant summer food, to mirror the weather. But the day was morbid and grey. We had to create the atmosphere ourselves, with flowers and with wine.



The menu was as follows:

Act I:

Rosemary & sage bread with balsamic vinegar and olive oil
Olive tapenade
Artichoke & spinach dip
Truffle cheese with raspberries & blueberries (finally, a chance to indulge my truffle mania)

Act II:

Lemon Mint Israeli Couscous
Shittake mushrooms & asparagus with honey

Act III:

Strawberry ice-cream with Balsamic vinegar (entirely inspired by Molly Moon's)
Various fruits with melted dark chocolate

Various wines, coffee, etc.

And all went as planned. There was the best cheese story I've ever heard, a long discussion on belly-buttons (which is, you know, one of my specialty subjects), and warm conversation which smeared into a general celebration of high-spirits.



As I'm writing this as a faux foodie, let me quote the regnant M.F.K. Fisher: "Too few of us, perhaps, feel that the breaking of the bread, the sharing of salt, the common dipping into one bowl, means more than satisfaction of a need."



(P performing brain surgery on a cantaloupe)





(Those dear newlyweds: kind enough to let us into their new apartment and let me break a bowl, spill a wine glass and drop balsamic vinegar all over the tablecloth I bought them as a wedding present.)



(A future lawyer and future Icelander in the party spirit)



(Birthday friends, now 24 and 25 respectively. L and I met the day after our birthday in our freshman year of college, and we're still celebrating it.)



A divine night, wholly scented with lavender. And so (Fisher again):

"Then, with good friends...and good food on the board, and good wine in the pitcher, we may well ask, When shall we live if not now?"

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The School of Hard Knocks

It is my current hope to go to graduate school for English literature next year: a certain school in a certain place, both a goal and an insurmountable challenge. Having been out of college for a year already, and having graduated as a music major, I am rusty. Trying to compensate, I googled “books every english major has read” but have had a difficult time finding a list that suggests what every (generalized) English major should have read by the time of (undergraduate) graduation. As a person who attended a high school whose meager syllabus prescribed the study of one novel, one play and four poems a year, and who could only scrape enough college literature credits for a minor, I feel woefully behind. Most American kids got a head start in AP English (seriously – who are those freaks who read Ulysses in high school?). American high schools may have their weaknesses, but a strong and ambitious push to read literature consistently is not one of them. There are gaps, and I fear that wh...

Natural Love

We sadly miss the beauty and silliness of medieval cosmology: “The sun, moon, and stars go still round…for love of perfection. This love is manifest, I say, in inanimate creatures. How comes a loadstone to drawn iron to it? jet chaff? The ground to covet showers, but for love? No creature, St. Hierome concludes, is to be found…[that does not love something], no stock, no stone, that hath not some feeling of love. ‘Tis more eminent in plants, herbs, and is especially observed in vegetals…the olive and the myrtle embrace each other in roots and branches if they grow near…” Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy .

Once on this island

Island literature is so wonderfully stagey. Like the murder in the English village, the island is a self-contained playground for certain fantasies to run wild, and for certain conceits to be explored. I wonder who first discovered the island as the fertile ground to explore themes of civilization and degeneration? For characters to perform as a microcosm (a word I learned when reading Lord of the Flies ) for society. I traced my way to The Island of Dr. Moreau backwards: from LOST , to Bioy Casares’ Invention of Morel , to a lecture on mad doctors and vivisection (from which I learned the term apophane , or, cutting the vocal chords of an animal so that the vivisector will not be bothered by the sounds of pain by the subject under the knife), to a Penguin Classic picked up in George’s best used bookstore. It was an unnerving and unsafe read: chanting beast-people and scientists with questionable ethics are the only companions this narrator can expect to have on a mysterious island af...