Everything happens for a reason and the reasons Zoe wanted to host a dinner party at my house were threefold. (Also, her name is not really Zoe. I’m putting all persons associated with this particular blog under the witness protection program and I happen to be currently in love with the name Zoe.) Reason One: We had just attended a series of wine pairing dinners at an Italian restaurant and Zoe was determined to host her own dinner party replete with three perfect wine choices for before, during and after. To do this, she hastened to a wine warehouse and came home with four cartons of just the right selections. Reason Two: Zoe had been meaning to invite Bill and Barry over for dinner to thank them for all the potlucks they’d served Zoe, Zack, me and a hundred others over the years. So she decided to create an intimate gathering where she could dote upon them and send them home drunk. Who’s Zack you ask? He lived across the street from Zoe and became her best friend. He was also besties with Bill and Barry. That’s how Zoe and I became part of the cosmic debris that circled the entertainment planet known as B&B’s. Reason Three: Much to Zoe’s surprise when she told him of her dinner plans, Zack replied he would under no circumstance come to her house. A traumatic event had forced him to move away and he could not bear to be within eyesight of his former Shangri La. He solved the problem by suggesting she should host her party at my house. It was actually a shorter drive for B&B and literally down the hill from where Zack was temporarily living with his buddy Bruce. Certain I would be okay with this, Zoe called up explaining her dilemma and stating categorically that she would supply all the food and drink. Further, she would not only set everything up beforehand but clean up afterwards and leave my house spotless. All I needed to do was provide six chairs and some dinnerware. How could I refuse? A date was set. The guest list was B&B&B&Z&Z and me. I began strategizing with this phone call: “Do you want to serve your meal on platters we can pass around and take back to the kitchen or do you want to dish up the food on plates and carry them to the table?” “Why can’t we just put the platters on the table?” “There’s no room on the table.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “Really? A few platters should fit in the middle.” “The table is 38 by 48. If you set it for six, there’s room for a salt and pepper shaker.” “Are you certain? I remember it being bigger.” “Nope. Small room. Small table. Platters or plates?” “I guess we can dish up the food in the kitchen and bring their plates to them. By the way, I just found out that B&B invited Alan and Fred, so there will be eight for dinner.” “Then I’ll have to set up a card table in the living room.” “Why?” “I can’t seat more than six at the dining table.” “I’m sure if we squeeze in a little we could add two more settings.” “Nope. Tried seven one time. Poor fellow couldn’t get close enough to eat his dinner.” “That can’t be right.” “… and the two with their backs to the window are riveted in place until dinner is over. For eight, we need the card table in the living room.” “Can’t we put it against the table to make the table longer?” “We could but then no one would be able sit at it. There’s a wall in the way.” She wasn’t really convinced but I explained I’d done it before. The card table and all that went with it would be deftly hidden out of sight while we gathered in the living room for appetizers and chatting. Once dinner was about to be served, I would swiftly set it up smack dab in the middle of Appetizer Land because that’s the only place it fit. I live in a small house. These details being finalized, we prepared for the Grand Event. Zoe would arrive at three and have everything ready to go by the time guests showed at five. I know that sounds like an early start but B&B had a long drive home and the other B wanted to get the whole thing over with as early as possible. Zoe didn’t exactly arrive as planned. She’d decided to make serving easier by baking individual pot pies. A whole meal under one crust atop one plate, et voila! Also, she decided to bake blueberry pies for dessert; two for the party and one for Bruce to have all to himself. The three blueberry pies turned out fine but when she started making the crusts for the chicken pot pies she realized she’d underestimated her timing. Rolling dough for ten little uppers and lowers took longer than expected. Why ten? What if someone wanted seconds? Not only that, once she got the filling mixed she remembered Zack and I are deathly allergic to the Cream of Mushroom Soup in her recipe. She needed to start over with more flour and whatever you use to make chicken pot pie juice. So she was running late. “I’m running late.” “I noticed.” “I’ll have to cook the chicken pot pies in your oven. Do you have two eighteen inch cookie sheets or should I bring them?” “Eighteen inch sheets won’t fit.” “What?” “The door won’t close.” ‘Why?” “I have an apartment size oven.” “Are you sure?” “Will sixteen inches do? I have those.” “We’ll have to make it work. Turn your oven on now to 350. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” It takes me forty-five minutes to drive to her house but I am not exaggerating when I promise you she can make it here in twenty minutes. The woman is fearless. When she pulled up my driveway, she was still wearing her scrubs. She’d had no time to dress or put on makeup before loading her car with cartons of wine, uncooked pies, and all the fixings for our appetizers. Now is when it starts to get funny. While she was racing to get to my house, the cardboard box holding the cooked pies shifted just enough to allow the bubbly berry juice to exit the pies and fill up the carton. This we realized as she carried the box into my kitchen with its newly painted white cabinets. There was a trail of berry juice on the back stairs’ cement, across the linoleum, up the walls of the cabinets and all over the counter tiles. Don’t ask; I have no idea how, I just knew I had to start wiping fast before my woodwork was permanently pinkish blue and white. Meanwhile, as I was wiping, Zoe the Flash took the dripping carton outside to hose it off (leaving another trail for me to swab), unloaded all the appetizer fixings waiting to be chopped and arranged, and flung two cookie sheets with five pies each into the oven without realizing the oven was only lukewarm. “Can you cut up vegetables for the appetizer tray?” “Sure. Just as soon as I’m done wiping.” “Here are the cucumbers. Could you slice them?” “Yes. Sure.” That is what I replied every time she reiterated her question. Meanwhile, I continued to wash off berry splatters. Finally I finished. “OK. I’m done now. Where are the cucumbers?” “Never mind. I did it. Everything is set out. I’m going to change my clothes.” I should have mentioned it was now five minutes before the first of our guests were due to arrive. Zack and Bruce were nothing if not prompt. Seconds before they rang the doorbell, Zoe emerged, dressed to the nines, ready to have fun. She poured us all tiny flutes of Prosecco and sat down to have a hearty chat with Bruce while Zack nibbled on cucumbers. “Uh, Zoe,” I whispered in her ear. She didn’t hear me. “Zoe,” I whispered louder. No response. She was fully engaged in fascinating talk. “Zoe!” This time I tugged on her sleeve. “The oven wasn’t on. It’s demented.” “What?” “I set the dial wrong. It’s been warming the pies. I just turned it up to 350. How long will it take for them to cook?” “About an hour. I’ll check later.” She wasn’t worried. I was, but then that’s how Zoe and I roll. Soon Bill and Barry arrived. There was more Prosecco pouring, more munching, more chatting while we waited for Alan and Fred to show up and the pot pies to finish cooking. Eventually the pies were done and and there was still no sign of A&F. You see, they were used to B&B’s come-whenever open house potlucks, so instead of 5 they walked in at 7:30. But they hadn’t had their Prosecco and nibbles, so we needed to give them a chance to catch up with us. “Where’s the Prosecco, Zoe?” “It’s in the refrigerator.” “No, it’s not.” “Sure it is. I put it there. I’ll go get it.” The Prosecco was not in the refrigerator. “Where did it go?” Zoe asked herself as she pawed through every box she’d carted in. “I just had it.” “I don’t know. I wasn’t watching you.” “Never mind. I have another bottle in the car. Give me a minute.” A few moments later, we six stared at A&F as they refused our offer of tepid sparkling wine and munched on canapés instead. Finally, we we could stand it no longer. We leaped up and said “Let’s eat!” Bruce and I had the card table set up and people seated seconds before Joyce brought out whatever wine pairs with chicken pot pies. That’s when she discovered half the diners didn’t want any. I had some bubble water. They drank that. Dinner was scrumptious. One party of four chatted and ate in one room and another party of four echoed the sentiment in a different room. No one finished their pot pies because they’d filled up on hors d’oeuvres but everyone had blueberry pie. No desert wine, mind you, much as Zoe tried to convince them it was a good idea. Coffee. They wanted coffee. I made coffee. Unfortunately for those who wanted cream, I accidentally poured buttermilk in the creamer. Then they all fled the place. Barry took his pie with him. I tried to convince Zoe that I would clean up, but she was determined to keep her word. She whisked the remains of soggy pie crusts into my trash can so she could cart home her individual pie tins which she’d purchased special for the occasion. We were both so tired she agreed to my pleas to allow me to wash the dishes the next day. Then she fled with her three cartons of unopened wine. These were the days when I thought I had to wash the silverware so it wouldn’t tarnish overnight. Now I know better. But that night something prompted me to not only wash it but to count it. A dessert fork was missing. Those of you who own 70-year old second hand silver-plated eating utensils know the importance of locating a missing salad/dessert fork. You might be able to order a spoon in your pattern on EBay but the odds of finding a matching dessert fork are slim to none. That’s why, if you peeked through my kitchen window at one in the morning you would have found me sitting crosslegged on the floor, lifting handfuls of soggy dough from the trashcan and dumping them into a plastic bag. Scoop, squeeze, plop, and repeat. Yes, I found the fork. Of course, it was near the bottom of the can. Vastly relieved, reeling with victorious fatigue, I stumbled off to bed, secure in the knowledge that a full set of dirty dishes awaited me in the morning. Zoe was happy with the evening’s success but I think her enthusiasm for hosting wine-pairing parties per se dimmed for a brief time. It took awhile to cycle through the unopened bottles she carted home. However, there was one unexpectedly good follow-up. Mid-week, I called her. “Zoe.” “Yes?” “I found it.” “Found what?” “The missing bottle of Prosecco.” “Really? Where?” “In the freezer.” “Oh! That’s right! Now I remember! I put it there so it would stay cold.” “It’s frozen solid.” “It’s a good thing it was almost empty.” “I know, right? Otherwise it would have exploded and I’d still be picking glass shards out of my meatloaf.” For some reason, Zoe has never asked to host another dinner party at my house. Enough time has passed that Zack is willing to eat at her table again. She feeds us well there. Whatever she makes is delicious. So are the wines she offers.