The Art of Dressing for Dinner
I greet this Saturday with drool on my pillow, dreams of delectable dishes chasing across my starved palate. Will 6:30 this evening EVER get here?
All day long, MTM will be torturing my nostrils with aromas. Simmering scents. Nuanced perfumes. Earthy smells. The four burners of the gas stove will work my abused senses into a foaming froth of longing, MTM’s stirring ladle a paddle to slap my greedy hands away from the morsels cooking there.
Bill and Cheryl Smithem are coming over for dinner tonight, one of those lingering affairs, multiple courses where we sit around the table and gab to a soundtrack of mood music, flickering firelight, and heaping piles of orgiastic food. For the balance of my Saturday, I will do everything I can to distract my craven stomach, bewitched by MTM’s culinary voodoo.
I will check the mail.
And taste a sauce.
I will select table linens, ironing them to a starched sheen.
And use that work to justify an oozing snack of something brewing.
I will straighten my desk.
And let my fingers stray into a sampling bowl of deliciousness.
I might sneak in a nap.
And awake to a sliver of scented joy, preening aromatically on the table beside me.
Dang. Just penning this post made me famished. I hope Bill and Cheryl don’t notice it when they arrive to find that I have stuffed myself into a stupor.