We had another party, tis' the season!
M. called and wanted to know if I wanted to go out for dinner instead of staying in and playing hostess. The economy is bad (did you know?) and we have heard horror stories of couples going out to eat and only ordering one entree and one glass of wine. That's it -- not one glass of wine and one entree each, one glass of wine and one entree, that's all. How very sad for all involved!
To boost restaurant waitstaff morale we toyed with the idea of dressing up and going out and ordering lots of food and wine and living as big a tip as we could. But then the restaurants were all booked up -- I guess on this night in the city all was merry and bright. So we decided to stay in.
M. brought home purple cabbage and red cabbage and sausages and apples. I swept the floor and made cranberry-pistachio shortbread cookies. Together we cooked, drank fine German Riesling, laughed and told stories with a friend of M.'s who is a real live Indiana Jones. This intense fellow is an archaeologist who just returned from a dig in Belize.
He had secrets to share, you could tell, but none for me. We just met last night, after all, and if he told me he'd have to kill me, or hold me captive for a very long time, or something equally cold and distasteful.