All my writer friends just left my potluck dinner party. It was so successful that I can almost stop feeling nervous about throwing parties now. Maybe I CAN throw fun parties after all. I never get over that paranoid feeling that nobody will come and, if they do come, that everyone will have a terrible time. I suppose the adult difference in this scenario is alchohol and roasted turkey.
Some people mocked my decision to roast turkeys all day on this, the first 75 degree day of the year in Pittsburgh. But when everyone arrived to my boiling hot kitchen and tasted the citrusy, garlicy heaven that was the bird, they all shut up real fast. As soon as they begged me to open the windows.
I loved lounging around on the opened futon gabbing about writing and writers and eating turkey with our fingers and drinking dessert sherry. I wish we could have parties more often. Except then I would have mounds of dishes to do all the time. And that's almost less fun than doing laundry.