Recently it dawned on me that I’ve gone pretty completely crossed The Line (wherever that was) and landed myself right smack dab in the middle of Domesticity. I love having people over. I love feeding them. When our single guy friends come over, I run off into the kitchen and whip up some dinner, because a little light somewhere in the back of my brain blinks on and informs me that yes, they must be fed. I love bustling around in an apron (mine is covered in black and white polka dots and dragons and enormous buttons), filling wine glasses and clearing plates and straightening coasters.
It is the weirdest damn thing, I tell you.
I bake when I’m bored. I plan recipes days in advance. I rub my hands together gleefully when I come across an excuse to use up some of that half-quart of opened buttermilk in the fridge or to pull out my brand new piping bag/cheese slicer/salad bowl.
All this became very apparent last night (though I’ve been suspicious about this for a few months now) when we had ourselves a regular little dinner party – seven of us in our wee apartment. We ran out of plates, we had just enough forks and only one wineglass to spare, but oh my goodness, did we ever have plenty of food. Orzo with homemade pesto, a huge mixed green salad with tomatoes and avocados, French bread and, to finish, raspberry cake.
I’m still full, but at least the kitchen is clean.