did someone say dinner party?

The doorbell rang and I checked the peep hole: my first guest stood pulling on her pearls with one hand and balancing a pie dish in the other. I pat my bouffant hair and smoothed the ruffles in my skirt. “Hellooo, dahling! DO come in!” I cooed as she stepped inside. Another friend followed with a salad bowl in the crook of her arm. “To the kitchen, shall we?” As we waited for the green bean casserole and lemon-pepper chicken to arrive, we chit-chat about the rich and gorgeous husbands we’d invented, which naturally led to stories of our adorable children: Kitty, Bartholomew, Margot, and Derek Ronald Frances III.

I can’t remember how or why we came up with the idea for a Housewife Party, but it was one of the most memorable get-togethers of high school. We were junior girls, pot-lucking around my parents’ dining room table. We dabbed the corners of our lipsticked lips and giggled at each others poorly executed British dialect. “EXcellent nosh, loves. AbsoLUTely divine.” After indulging in homemade pie and a game of Life, we deemed our dinner party a massive success.

Six years later, I still love dinner parties (though they no longer include fake children or snooty accents). The community-style meals make hosting a cinch, and, more often than not, guests are happy to contribute. Last night, I only made the zucchini and roasted new potatoes. My friends covered the salad, pork tenderloin, brownies, and drinks. We broke into the wine, chat in the warmth of the kitchen, stayed at the table for hours...it’s hard to imagine an evening better-spent. These dinners counteract our work-induced exhaustion. We relax. We laugh. We say we should do this again, and we mean it. We all eat, so why not eat together? The concept is simple, and the effects are satisfying. Deeply satisfying. Satisfying like red wine and dark chocolate. Like red wine and dark chocolate and a good book. And a warm blanket. Mmmmyes, I think I’ll bask in a feeling like that. Every chance I get.