The Dinner Party
Smoothing imaginary wrinkles from a starch-white tablecloth — a wedding gift from his aunt — I resist the urge to refold my favourite periwinkle-blue napkins for the third time. Over the years, a newlywed’s wish for “things to be nice” has turned into a nervous tic when hosting these dinners.
Early evening sunlight streams through the dining room windows, bouncing shimmering rays off the precision-laid cutlery. Boozy pink roses, bought market-fresh that morning, turn their heads to bask in the glowing warmth.
The aroma of beef, marinated for days in a jammy burgundy wine, now encased in buttery pastry, wafts into the room and beckons me. This is a welcome confirmation that I’ve remembered to turn on the oven. I am not optimistic, however, that this small success will avoid another reminder of the Christmas dinner faux pas. I catch a falling rose petal before following my nose’s bidding.
I had always been a confident cook, having learned almost by osmosis in my mother’s Caribbean kitchen. As children, we watched mum and the other sage women prepping and seasoning food which turned into delicious alchemies not found in any mainstream cookbook. A friend or neighbour’s predictable question of “May I have the recipe for that?” was a futile one. There was no written-down recipe.
The precise instructions for golden chicken that oozed honey and herbs, soft yet crisp at the same time, was made using a bit of this, a smidgen of that and, only if needed, mind you, a sprinkling or two of something else. Learning to cook was an exercise in sitting, observing, smelling and tasting until the dish, Goldilocks-like, was just right. Our long-ago kitchen was a place rich in laughter, companionship and gossip, and never more so than when the women were cooking to receive guests. These were tasty times for childish ears hiding nearby after hours hoping to hear juicy titbits and nab cordoned-off canapés.
Hearing his slow, deliberate footsteps, I close the oven door quickly since he won’t approve, but a slight temperature drop is the lesser evil today. I dab my face, tingling from the rush of steam, but I am confident in my progress report.
“All okay, sweetie? You look flushed,” he says coming up behind and startling me. I waver between confirmation and denial, although neither answer will be the correct one. I choose distraction instead and ask him, “Drink before everyone arrives?”
“Yes, please, although perhaps hold off yourself, sweetie, you know how you get.”
I pour him a generous glass, returning my crystal goblet to the cupboard.
“I had a quick look in the dining room, sweetie, lovely, but let’s use the burgundy napkins Aunt Bernice gave us. The blue ones aren’t quite right, don’t you agree?”
“Oh! I can change them, although I’ll have to hurry.”
“No need, love, I’ve already done it for you.”
Once again, I am caught between his thoughtfulness and my questionable taste.
After leaving home, there was no greater comfort than visiting my mother’s kitchen, especially over a weekend. Going to see mum was always synonymous with her home cooking.
Exhausted from corporate machinations and marriage monopoly, I was relieved when my husband was unable to join me. A solo performance of married bliss was always less taxing. His own job demanded above-and-beyond loyalty, which I suspected also spared him the subtle but knowing eyes of my family audience.
Of course, he had suggested I stayed home—this time to make a jump on the work week. He had helpfully procured food containers from the Cash & Carry. Batch cooking at least some of the meals would save me “from being so rushed” when we both got home from work. I had anticipated his poker hand and not only prepared some meals ahead, but also cooked for the weekend’s needs to tide him over while I was gone. The pull of kindness and acceptance at my mother’s house always encouraged boldness.
Mum’s Saturday morning dish of salted fishcakes and onions crept up the stairs to my room, stopping the showreel of my eventual departure. A weekend of fun and food culminated in a Sunday piquant with oven-roasted chicken, rice & peas, sweet plantain and macaroni cheese. This was not the English take on ‘Mac & Cheese’ — the West Indian version didn’t move once on the plate. If love has a smell, it would be those coming from my mother’s kitchen.
“And are you quite sure about the roses, sweetie?” This as he takes his handkerchief and gently pats my forehead dry. The sweet boy of ten years ago swims before my eyes, but I no longer have a way to reach him.
“Are you listening, dear?”
And like a mirage, he is gone, and sweet memory crumbles away like sand in the wind, leaving behind our reality.
“Yes, I bought them fresh yesterday,” I say. Given the lateness of the hour, I am hoping we won’t rally and volley a stressful tennis game of how we find replacement flowers in time.
“Well, fingers crossed they won’t let off that awful stench like last time. Might peonies not be better?”
“What stench?”
“Come on, dear, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Aunt Bernice remarked on it.”
“I remember her saying how much she liked them,” I say, guessing I’m already about 40-love down.
“Yes, Auntie has such lovely manners; so polite.”
And game.
He scans the kitchen with military precision, his eyes darting around as if taking polaroid pictures of potential failings. A barrage of questions follows to a cadence I know well. Rat-a-tat-tat, like a machine-gun, the assault begins on questions about the main, turns to the sides and ends in dessert. Coffee and petit fours are shop-bought and, therefore, spared the flashlight of his scrutiny. Backtracking suddenly, he begs me to assure him I haven’t opened the oven. “We don’t want the Christmas faux pas all over again, do we, sweetie?”
I am saved from mendacity by the ringing of the hall phone.
“Why are you wearing your coat?” he asks.
“I am going to treat myself to some fresh roses,” I say, doing up the top button of my new cherry red coat.
“There’s no time for that, sweetie, I told you they might be okay.” His tight, pursed lips lends the lie to his benevolence.
“I’m going all the same.”
“What now? What on earth has got into you? I told you not to have a drink before dinner.”
“I haven’t had a drink. By the way, that was Aunt Bernice. She says she has the peonies you rang her about earlier.”
As I open the front door to leave, my head held high for the first time in a long time, the smell of burnt beef greets the first of our arriving dinner guests.
