We tried to have a dinner party a while back. Years ago, this wouldn’t have been a big thing. I love cooking. (I love eating even more, which should be obvious.) We have a decent size dining room with enough chairs. And we actually like the people we were going to invite (itself, a greataccomplishment.)
So we went ahead and invited the people (step 1.) Next we had to come up with a menu (step 2.) And that’s when the trouble started.
If you are not over 50, perhaps you haven’t experienced this yet (she chortled fiendishly.)
“We have a few culinary restrictions from our guests,” I said to DH. “I hope we can serve more than water and a toothpick.”
“What requests?” said DH.
I looked down at the list. “Nothing with gluten or beans.”
“Cathy requested that. Because of Phil and his proximity to the other guests.”
“Gotcha.” DH shivered.
“No cilantro, peppers or fresh garlic. Nancy is sensitive,” I said.
“How about your famous lasagne?” said DH, with hunger in his eyes.
“No good. Both Lainy and Bob are lactose intolerant.”
“Rib eye steaks?” he said. “I can do them on the barbie.”
“Tim has to watch his cholesterol. So do you,” I reminded.
“BBQ chicken then. With a nice bourbon sauce.”
“Tiffany is a vegetarian,” I reminded.
“We can throw some shrimp on the barbie for her,” said DH, in a generous mood.
“Vern is allergic to seafood. It couldn’t be the same barbeque.”
“Running out of ideas, Babe,” said DH.
A pause. “Peanut butter?”
I shook my head. “Marilyn. Allergic.”
“Oatmeal! We could have Haggis.”
“Not in my lifetime.”
Silence. We stared at each other.
“Pea soup?” he said, in desperation.
The phone rang. I ran to get it.
I came back to the kitchen. “Barb just phoned. Phil has a colonoscopy scheduled for Monday, so he can only have clear liquids.”
“Back to water and a toothpick,” I said.
“That’s pretty cheap,” said my Scottish husband, gleefully.