For More From This Author Including Photography, see: Loriepstein.com
One Friday every month, I invite my girlfriends over to my little apartment and I cook for them. All I ask them
to bring is the beverage of their choice and their sweet selves. I started hosting these dinner parties a couple of months after I moved here to DC; I was missing my wonderful circle of friends in New York City, and beginning to feel a little socially starved. The list of invitees has grown from two old college friends, a coworker, and a nice girl I met in the grocery store (that’s a great story! Some other time…) to the dozen or so girls I now call my friends.It’s an eclectic group, to say the least. Among us, there’s a law student, a photographer, a refugee worker, a girl who works in national security (ssssh!), a scientist, and a flight attendant. We’ve even got a virgin and a vegetarian! The girls start trickling in around 6 p.m., and one or two come directly from work, eager to end the week and
begin relaxing. They’ll sit in the living room and unwrap brie, arrange a plate of crudités, or flip through my anemic collection of CDs, while I fuss with whatever is cooking in the kitchen. Most girls come at the appointed 6:30 to 7 p.m., buzzing my intercom from the lobby, coming in with bottle in hand, ready to hug the girl closest to the door. There’s always a latecomer or two, who barrel in just after we’ve tucked into the main dish.At first, I had to make introductions every month: “This is L. She’s a friend of Scott’s from grad school.” These surface introductions morphed into, “You remember A., right? She’s the one who’s got the hots for her younger coworker.” The memory settles in and the low-level banter begins. Now that the girls know one another, there’s a month’s worth of catching up to do: How was that job interview? And your trip to Kenya? Whatever happened with that guy you met at the Irish pub?
Our conver
sations run the gamut from so serious that one girl cried, to so silly that we all laugh until we cry. Outside of my apartment, these women might not say hello to one another, if they met on the street. But inside these walls, they laugh with each other and swap stories like old ladies. It makes me so happy to see these girls clicking with each other’s company, and enjoying each other. Oh, and there’s always the food. What should I make this month? I try not to lose too much sleep over it, but I’m an overachiever, so I can’t help myself! In the year that I’ve been hosting these dinner parties, I’ve only had one disaster (which actually turned out not to be a disaster from the guests’ point of view). I pledged to myself to make something different each month (again, the overachieving) and I try to use seasonal ingredients—or at least seasonal inspiration: pulled chicken sandwiches and homemade coleslaw in July, three-cheese lasagna in November. And while I do usually at least attempt to prepare something for our token vegetarian when the main dish is meat, she admittedly fills up with wine and cheese.With our wine glasses full and our plates overflowing with food, it’s time to eat. Some grab pillows and sit on the floor, others smoosh onto the sofa. The conversation continues, at times it breaks away, but never for too long.And that’s it, really. We sit and eat and tell stories. A wine glass doesn’t stay empty for too long and
sometimes someone gets up for a second helping (which pleases me to no end—they’re enjoying my food!). Dinner turns into dessert and the hours pass. The party usually starts breaking up around 10 p.m., when someone has to go meet her boyfriend, or hurry home to feed the dog. By 11 p.m., I’m hugging the last girl goodnight. There’s something so wonderful about a roomful of friends sharing a meal. It’s more than the paella or the roasted chicken. These dinners would be successful with boxed wine and take-out. No, as much as I’d like to think it’s my cooking that keeps these girls coming back every month, I know it’s not. It’s the camaraderie, the friendship, and the act of sharing that makes these nights special.
And the hope that one of these nights, the virgin will arrive with a naughty grin on her face.
One Friday every month, I invite my girlfriends over to my little apartment and I cook for them. All I ask them
to bring is the beverage of their choice and their sweet selves. I started hosting these dinner parties a couple of months after I moved here to DC; I was missing my wonderful circle of friends in New York City, and beginning to feel a little socially starved. The list of invitees has grown from two old college friends, a coworker, and a nice girl I met in the grocery store (that’s a great story! Some other time…) to the dozen or so girls I now call my friends.It’s an eclectic group, to say the least. Among us, there’s a law student, a photographer, a refugee worker, a girl who works in national security (ssssh!), a scientist, and a flight attendant. We’ve even got a virgin and a vegetarian! The girls start trickling in around 6 p.m., and one or two come directly from work, eager to end the week and
begin relaxing. They’ll sit in the living room and unwrap brie, arrange a plate of crudités, or flip through my anemic collection of CDs, while I fuss with whatever is cooking in the kitchen. Most girls come at the appointed 6:30 to 7 p.m., buzzing my intercom from the lobby, coming in with bottle in hand, ready to hug the girl closest to the door. There’s always a latecomer or two, who barrel in just after we’ve tucked into the main dish.At first, I had to make introductions every month: “This is L. She’s a friend of Scott’s from grad school.” These surface introductions morphed into, “You remember A., right? She’s the one who’s got the hots for her younger coworker.” The memory settles in and the low-level banter begins. Now that the girls know one another, there’s a month’s worth of catching up to do: How was that job interview? And your trip to Kenya? Whatever happened with that guy you met at the Irish pub?Our conver
sations run the gamut from so serious that one girl cried, to so silly that we all laugh until we cry. Outside of my apartment, these women might not say hello to one another, if they met on the street. But inside these walls, they laugh with each other and swap stories like old ladies. It makes me so happy to see these girls clicking with each other’s company, and enjoying each other. Oh, and there’s always the food. What should I make this month? I try not to lose too much sleep over it, but I’m an overachiever, so I can’t help myself! In the year that I’ve been hosting these dinner parties, I’ve only had one disaster (which actually turned out not to be a disaster from the guests’ point of view). I pledged to myself to make something different each month (again, the overachieving) and I try to use seasonal ingredients—or at least seasonal inspiration: pulled chicken sandwiches and homemade coleslaw in July, three-cheese lasagna in November. And while I do usually at least attempt to prepare something for our token vegetarian when the main dish is meat, she admittedly fills up with wine and cheese.With our wine glasses full and our plates overflowing with food, it’s time to eat. Some grab pillows and sit on the floor, others smoosh onto the sofa. The conversation continues, at times it breaks away, but never for too long.And that’s it, really. We sit and eat and tell stories. A wine glass doesn’t stay empty for too long and
sometimes someone gets up for a second helping (which pleases me to no end—they’re enjoying my food!). Dinner turns into dessert and the hours pass. The party usually starts breaking up around 10 p.m., when someone has to go meet her boyfriend, or hurry home to feed the dog. By 11 p.m., I’m hugging the last girl goodnight. There’s something so wonderful about a roomful of friends sharing a meal. It’s more than the paella or the roasted chicken. These dinners would be successful with boxed wine and take-out. No, as much as I’d like to think it’s my cooking that keeps these girls coming back every month, I know it’s not. It’s the camaraderie, the friendship, and the act of sharing that makes these nights special.And the hope that one of these nights, the virgin will arrive with a naughty grin on her face.
No comments:
Post a Comment