Without friends to share it with, a beef stew is just a beef stew.
But on this night, their company turned beef stew into a memory.
We were a potluck family.
Simply Recipes / Katie Smith
A Sunday gathering family.
Dinner parties come in all shapes and sizes.
Some are haphazard, composed of take-out pizza and chips from the pantry.
Simply Recipes / Katie Smith
Others are themed affairs that take weeks to prepare.
Thered be as much witty conversation as there was delicious food.
We would wrap ourselves up in the good vibes of the night, like a plush coat.
I thought a good dinner party would be my admittance into adulthood.
My first hosting opportunity came when I was in graduate school for creative writing in the Midwest.
I was attending a charity auction our classmates threw in a basement dive bar.
Such portentous words could mean many things in this context.
An invitation to commit a crime?
An excerpt from a Eudora Welty story?
A meditation on American ruralism in the media?
I smiled noncommittally and waited it out.
Finally, he explained, The apple pie you won at the auction.
The one Im supposed to make for you?
Of course, the apple pie!
Most everyone else had forgotten their obligations from the bids, but Chris was a man of his word.
Having watched endless hours ofTop Chef, I was sure I could pull it off.
My first real dinner party.
You know who else loves pie?
Franny* and her fiance Liam*.
The more the merrier, I told them.
But the misadventure begins a little before then.
My husband is in charge of cocktails.
I notice his careful line of gin, vodka, and mixers.
Beef bourguignon it is.
Who doesnt like beef stew, especially in the frigid depths of winter like we were in?
What I lack in experience, I will make up for in confidence!
In a rush, I jot down ingredients and resolve to look at the recipe in full later.
Thatll be enough food for six, right?
After all, the beef stew is probably pretty big.
Maris asks what she can bring.
Ive got it all under control!
Snow begins to lightly dot my windshield.
Id be more worried about canceling the dinner party, but its the Midwest.
We dont stop anything for snow.
My husband stares at the big hunk of beef on the counter and asks, Shouldnt you start dinner?
Oh,no.Julias recipe takes a cool six hours.
I start biting my nails.
I turn on the stove and hope for the best.
Maris comes with Chris, who holds up his apple pie tin proudly.
Maris asks, What are you cooking?
I tell her and he gives me a doubtful look.
Shes a former server at a high-end restaurant on the West Coast and a pro cook.
Doesn’t that take… well, a really long time."
Go have a cocktail!
I hear my husband turning on 80s rock in the next room.
Is that REO Speedwagon?
At least its not jazz.
6:30 p.m.
Franny and Liam arrive, brushing snow from their coats.
The storm has thickened and the roads are slow, perilous.
Only three hours left!
I rejoin my friends, who are gathered around our dining room table.
The olives are gone.
The cheese, demolished.
Only a couple of crackers remain.
Everyone eyes them with the suppressed rabidity of gentleman vultures.
My husband pulls me aside and asks, Is there more food?
Of course there is!
(Theres not.)
I pull out some lunch meat and slices of cheese from the fridge.
I root out some stale Triscuits that I pile into the center of a plate.
Were way past the need for pretty presentation here.
7:30 p.m.
Weve exhausted all the department gossip.
Franny describes her ideal wedding.
My husband tells us about the time he got bit in the butt by a chihuahua in Costa Rica.
Were laughing so hard that we dont notice the thick swath of snow curtaining the window.
8:00 p.m.
The savory-sweet smell of beef stew permeates the room.
Maybe its done early?
I check on it, but no, the beef is nowhere close to done.
When they see me arrive empty-handed, they stifle sighs of disappointment.
Its an abject mess, but shes so lovely about it.
When youre flipping something, you just have to have the courage of your convictions, she advises.
What more do we need than that?
Simply Recipes / Katie Smith
8:30 p.m.
I have good news and bad news, I tell everyone.
Which do you want first?
The stew wont be ready for two more hours.
Groans ricochet around the room.
My husband slips to the bar for another bourbon.
Chris begins studying a spot on the tablecloth with such intensity that I think hell set it on fire.
Ive never been so hungry in my life, he mutters.
If good-natured Chris is turning on me, I stand no chance.
I am so sorry, I say, hanging my head.
Whats the good news?
She swipes the last shred of turkey lunchmeat and nibbles at it delicately.
I say as brightly as I can muster.
He smiles sympathetically, at them and at me.
It involves placing names in a hat and a lot of arguments over what constitutes a celebrity.
(Liams references are obscure, but we like him too much to tell him.)
We play for a long time, until someone suggests we up the wager.
Winner gets… Franny looks around.
Chriss apple pie, Maris completes, appearing with the tin in her hands, like a pie fairy.
Those words are magic, filling the room with new energy.
The last round is our most competitive yet.
My husband wins and he offers to share the pie.
I am so glad I married him.
We dont even bother to slice it.
I hand out the forks and we dig in, like the animals we are.
9:30 p.m.
Were shaking our shoulders to Sean Paul.
Were swishing our hips to Destinys Child.
Liam asks why 50 Cent isnt pluralized and we burst out in laughter.
We scoop forkfuls of Chriss apple pie into each other’s mouths.
I wish I had a video of that dinner party.
Even a few seconds.
The memory is so beautiful, it almost hurts.
9:45 p.m.
Technically, the beef bourguignon isnt melting-apart done, but I declare it done enough.
The truth is, Im not that hungry.
But I taste the stew.
Its fine, though I know I wont be getting any protege points from Julia.
Mmm, my guests moan around the table, more from relief than satisfaction.
They look sleepy now, maybe from the dancing, and maybe from the cocktails.
They look like babies ready for bed.
We finish our bowls of beef bourguignon and toast to Julia, our queen of imperfect cooking.
you’re free to stay here if you want, I tell my friends.
But the storm has nearly passed; out the windows, we see diligent plows clearing the roads.
Everyone switches to water, resolving to get themselves in driving condition.
We all feel the night sliding to a close.
10:30 p.m.
My friends put on their coats and search for their belongings.
Someone discovers their cell phone in the couch cushions.
Another person plucks her bag from the bathroom sink.
Chriss shoes are, inexplicably, in two different rooms.
I slip on a pair of boots and walk them out to their cars.
The night is full of unexpected colorgold from the moonlight, with a pink flush on the horizon.
Theres the haze of gray clouds and a reflection of silver-blue snow.
My friends hug me one by one as they leave.
They thank me, but really, Im the one who owes them.
Without friends to share it with, a beef stew is just a beef stew.
But on this night, their company turned beef stew into a memory.
Its been a success more often than not.
And I would believe her.
*Names have been changed.
