I have never been, shall we say, comfortable with entertaining. When it comes to the planning and preparation involved with inviting people over to dine, I would much rather go to a nice, relaxing dental appointment or something less taxing like that.
Sometimes, however, I find that my mouth gets ahead of my brain and commits me to things I have no business doing. Take, for example, Easter dinner. Had I committed to something less monumental like, say, catering a small wedding, there might be some sense to it.
No. Oh no. I commit to Easter dinner. I invite ALL my in-laws to boot. Fortunately, they’ve all known me for ages and, as such, have no business expecting much.
Granted, they know they can count on me to bring a certain level of class to the festivities. I always take the lid off the chip dip before bringing it to the table, after all.
Missing. Nonetheless, in a near panic now that I’ve realized (A) the house is a certified mess and (B) I don’t cook all that well, I have been skimming the pages of a number of style and entertainment magazines for guidance.
Unfortunately, all I’ve discovered is the one glaring omission in my party plans: a weekend house. If only we had a weekend house, I see now, I could keep it spotlessly clean and just breeze in on the eve of the dinner with a wicker basket of fresh vegetables and – voil
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