A bottle of red

Song: Love, Love, Love - Tristan Prettyman

Diner coffee. Quixotically strong and bland at the same time, it's the only kind to prompt me to stir in creamer and sugar. The squat white mug looks just like the one from last week, served to me in another diner, another place, a couple of states away. It's contents serve the same purpose - wake me up, get me moving.

I blow on the steaming surface and grin across the booth's table. "No, no, no. It's Sunday brunch. This is dish time. Spill it."

Michelle nods from her place next to me, eating some of the whipped cream atop her hot chocolate. She also looks expectantly at John, who beams his best Cheshire cat grin. "You're holding out on us."

We're catching up on our weekends before delving into our various adventures over the last several months. I can't recall the last time the three of us have been in the same place, but we've relayed snippets in the duration, whenever two of the three are around, we chat about or ask about the third.

Each of us drank more than we probably should have the evening before; John at a club eager to serve cocktails, Michelle and I as two-thirds of a trifecta that polished off a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a blush. We take turns confessing to being ridiculous, not knowing why we don't have headaches. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the pain stays away - our various selections of eggs, toast or pancakes will hopefully help our causes.

***

I began sipping the wine around 6:30 Saturday evening, as I realized that the wine-ing was as key to the cooking as it was to the dining. I wasn't nearly as worried about screwing up a meal with a glass of wine on a counter across the kitchen.

The blush was sweet and pleasant as pots of water boiled, sauces simmered and bread baked in the oven. I pulled a floret of broccoli from the wok and popped it into my mouth. Hot but still crisp, more lemon than garlic. Perfect. Done.

The pasta would be finished in a moment or two, and the bread was warm and crusty. I poured olive oil onto a plate and added garlic. The spinach and artichoke dip Michelle had made before leaving to pick up KJ was perfect, and the salad only needed my bright pink plastic tongs.

Table set, a vase of bright flowers in the center. Michelle had brought them home from the last-minute grocery run, along with the extra-virgin olive oil and the lemon I decided I needed. For garnish. If I was cooking, I was going all out - and if the meal didn't taste right, at least it would look lovely.

A little more wine. Two of my close friends, women who impress and astound me, were coming over for my house, and I was giving my first dinner party. I was set to photograph the event so we could send images to the fourth, currently missing member of our group.

It appeared that blind confidence had prevented me from screwing up the meal, and I took care of the last minute accents and tasks that needed my attention. I was focusing on the colors, the smells, the texture of the pasta and the giddiness that comes with taking an assortment of items and pulling them together into a single result.

I heard a car pull into the driveway, then footsteps and voices coming up the stairs to the back porch. As the girls walked in, I grinned and walked toward them. "Velcome! Velcome! Vee hope you are prepared for zee dinner, come eeeen, come eeen! Some vine, yezzz?"

***

We laugh as John recounts the end of his night. "And did you have a good night?" he asks.

Indeed, dear friend. A good night was had by all.