Aren’t dinner parties a quandary?
You use every pot and pan in the place; you spread food from
floor to ceiling (and even in your hair); and you exhaust yourself shopping
and cooking.
Yet, on the one afternoon both you and your kitchen look and
feel like Hiroshima (after), you know that in two hours (and counting) you are
meant to look as though you just stepped off the cover of Vogue; your kitchen
is meant to look like a Fisher & Paykel commercial; the meal is supposed to
look effortless (even though it cost you three hundred bucks before the bottle shop) but taste divine; and you are supposed to initiate and maintain
polite social chit chat until your guests finally depart.
At The Monstress’ residence, the chit chat will start in approximately
nine minutes. I just pray no unsuspecting guest opens the spare room door or they
will be buried under an avalanche of hastily banished stray sporting equipment, umbrellas, ugly
throw cushions and a still-decorated Christmas tree.
There’s only one thing for all this stress – champagne. Gimme.
Happy New Year.
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