We’re having a couple over on Sunday for coffee and boardgames. I’m really quite excited and a bit nervous. Our place is small (cozy by real estate agent terms) and in winter, there’s not much space. In summer, we have the balcony, but I’m not going out there in winter thankyouverymuch!
(Plus I haven’t swept it in weeks, much to my upstairs neighbour’s chagrin. I keep expecting to open the curtains one morning to find her on the balcony sweeping, having rappelled down overnight. She’s 78.)
But back to Sunday. They’re coming over mid-afternoon, after lunch. It’s just an afternoon deal – no meal per se.
I’m planning cookies and dips and pita chips and what about coffee, do they drink coffee we should buy some coffee and milk and my mother would wonder about a cake.
As The Boy reminded me, it’s only 4 of us – me, The Boy, the couple.
I’m planning a menu for 12 people who are starving. It’ll be 4 with full lunch bellies.
And yet, my mother’s voice is in my head, planning a menu and emphasising that being a good hostess is about food and presentation and ohmygod, I need to clean everywhere. As if they’re going to examine the freaking SHOWER STALL. Wait, maybe they will.
Shit, I better get some gloves on.