2001-11-27 - 7:41 p.m.
I miss the dinner parties,
Christmas was my favourite.
The vodka and ashtray sitting by the stove,
Tealights strategically scattered.
The mild evening breezes that swept through the flat,
The orange that streamed in through the vertical blinds.
Delicate jazz playing,
Chats over the counter.
I always felt a certain possessiveness over the kitchen area,
My way, my ladle, my julienne carrots.
The most intimate company always came the earliest,
And stayed the longest.
Those who came, ate, and hurried off,
Were often the ones who happened to browse through my life at that point in time.
As the hours moved on,
Guests reclined into lounging positions,
Conversations slurred and delving.
The novelty of it all was in the preparation-
From the colour scheme (napkins, candles, flowers), to guest lists, and choice of desserts.
I want to be rich and throw dinner parties like Martha Stewart,
Build my empire on ikebana, Godiva chocolates and hors d'oeuvres.
