The Dinner Party

Norma arrives an hour ahead of time. “You’re early” I try not to shout. I'm wearing holey pants and a sweatshirt that looks a bit like one of Jackson Pollock’s drip works if he had used tomato sauce and pesto instead of paint. To keep her entertained over the next hour while I finish cooking, vacuum, have a shower, set the table, wash a large hillock of dishes, feed the cats and try to dissuade them from shedding all over the recently vacuumed furniture, I make Norma a chocolate martini. And one for myself.

Half an hour later I ask if she wants a chai berry martini. She does. I make one for her, and one for myself. Shortly before 7 I ask Norma if she’s ready to try what the wine wench has labelled “a really, really good shiraz.” She is, so I pour her a glass. And one for myself. Then there’s some activity at the door. I go and greet Teresa and Daniel. “You’re right on time” I say loudly, to ensure Norma hears me. There’s a lot of hugging, hellos, more martini mixing, and after a bit Heather, Marcy and Sylvain arrive. (Fashionably late, I point out to Norma.) More hugs, more hellos, more martinis. At this point I’m thinking we don’t even need dinner. I consider pulling out the Canada Food Guide to prove my point. The vodka is made from potatoes, which covers the carbohydrate and vegetable groups. Double whammy. The chai liqueur has cream in it: protein and dairy. Another double whammy. The wine covers the fruit group. Why weigh ourselves down with green and black olive crostini-white bean hummus with sage, roasted garlic, pine nuts-carmelized onions and sherry-roasted tomato and ginger chutney-roasted red pepper and goat cheese-olives with sundried tomatos and capers-lasagna Rio Grande made with asiago and jack cheeses, ricotta, cilantro pesto, chard, roasted peppers and zucchini, smoky tomato sauce-mixed greens with avocado and pepitas in a sesame oil lime vinaigrette? Why not just float like balloons through the room? Or swirl and dance all night? But everyone seems preoccupied with thoughts of food. It’s the last time I invite this crowd over for dinner. I mentally diagnose them all as having obsessive-compulsive disorder and pour more wine.

Somehow the meal makes it onto the table in a chaotic but delicious fashion. The conversation is equally chaotic but delicious, covering curling, crumhorns, cats, Cranium (the new version, where you get to manipulate people like puppets), 3:10 to Yuma (which probably left on time, I note for Norma's benefit), Burundi, brownies, girl guides, scouts, Cesar Evoria, and yoga for better sex (we can't get into our usual bawdy talk over this last one, owing to Marcy's presence).

Wisely, Norma realizes that she probably shouldn't drive to where she was supposed to be staying, and asks if she can sleep at my place. I assure her that's fine, and surreptitiously try to re-distribute the chaos (of the non-delicious sort) that has broken out in the guest room from all the books, magazines, knick-knacks, clothes and cats that I piled in there as a way of cleaning up for the dinner party. Fortunately the light bulb chooses to die at that point, so I figure Norma won't be able to see what the room is harbouring.

In the morning Norma and I chat over coffees. I briefly consider putting Bailey's in them, but then realize that because of the dinner party the night before, and the leisurely morning conversation, I have assumed it's the weekend. But it's actually Monday. Norma looks at her watch and gasps. “I've got to get going. I'm supposed to be there at 8:30.” “You're going to be late,” I remark helpfully.

Later I return from work to find no Norma. She's left a note instead. I'm disappointed. Since she moved to Hamilton we don't get to see her that much anymore. I've left early (underlined twice) so that I'll miss the freezing rain, she writes. That woman's timing is always off, I announce to the deliciously chaotic remains of the dinner party.