We had two friends around for dinner. It has been years since we have done such a thing. Our dyke friend and our hairdresser friend came, with our dyke friend suggesting take away pizza for dinner.
But I stepped up to the crease and produced a very nice entrée of stuffed olives, cheeses, quince paste, houmous/beetroot dip and biscuits while we chatted. I then heated and browned the lasagne I had made earlier and set the table and put out the salad, condiments and dressings. The garlic bread was perfect. Dessert was from a packet mix, but the chocolate mousse topped by raspberries and cream was very nice.
Ok, that is a lie. R did all that. I helped a bit along the way, but it is best that cooks are left alone when working. I take notes when R is cooking, in case I outlive him. I think I have it right. Dessert always begins with frying up onions.
When I noticed our two guests getting up to pour themselves another glass of wine, I realised I am a bad dinner host. They had to drive, so that is my excuse for not topping up their drinks.
Our dyke friend brought dog Jack with her. That was fun. Jack is not a dog who is normally focused on food. But recently someone who looked after him fed him tidbits under the table. To our great amusement, like as you try not to laugh at something a toddler has done which is both naughty and funny, while we ate our dinner, Jack removed the chunk of blue vein cheese from the platter on the coffee table and was rolling it around on the floor, busily licking away.
I went outside for a breath of fresh air and when I returned, our Hairdresser Friend had spread out white powder on our black reconstituted granite benchtop and was lining it up with her her credit card. "Do you have as straw Andrew?", she asked. It took me about an alarming two seconds to realise she was kidding. It was bi-carb for her indigestion.
I suppose you could call it a dinner party, but I think there is a good reason why dinner parties are so twentieth century.