When W.S. informed me that we were invited to dine at the home of a former college friend from his undergraduate days, I was both excited and wary. Although I was thrilled to shelve my 1001 Ways to Cook Hamburger recipe book, I was suspicious of anyone who actually chose to live, as a regular person, in this college town.
Quinn and Tami were non-university civilians, and lived in a neighborhood where Goodwill makes pickups instead of deliveries. I was glad it was beginning to get dark as we chugged up their elegant winding driveway in our dilapidated, 200,000 mile Plymouth.
As our host opened the door, it was obvious that Quinn was delighted to see W.S., and it was inevitable that soon the two of them would be lost in reminiscences about those carefree college days when they threw up into each other’s shoes, and other raucous undergraduate activities.
I didn’t understand if his wife, Tami was putting the finishing touches on dinner or herself, but Quinn said she’d be right out, as he handed each of us a genuine crystal glass, containing two carefully measured shots of single malt scotch. I calculated that a bottle of that stuff could keep us in groceries for two weeks.
Tami entered just as the doorbell rang, and as our hosts went to greet their other guests, I sank back against the soft sofa cushions and began to relax. It was Saturday, and while W.S. had spent most of the day studying at the library, my day off had involved cleaning, grocery shopping, and an unhappy two hours at the crowded laundromat. I had allowed just enough time to shower and trim a torn cuticle on my left thumb, before putting on my brand new hand-me-down dress lovingly sent by my mother-in-law, Fannie. Sitting in this beautifully appointed living room, sipping expensive scotch, I was anticipating a delicious meal and some stimulating non-thesis conversation.
As our hosts arrived with two other couples in tow, W.S. was quickly dragged off to the “boys” side of the room, and I was left at the mercy of “girl talk,” which involved one Mr. Alexander, a gifted but rude brute who teased hair and waxed upper lips for a hefty price. Although, my limit is one drink, I seriously considered a second shot of scotch when the discussion turned to clogged pores.
Then, the hors d’oeuvres arrived. Either I was hallucinating, or our hostess had just put raw meat loaf on the coffee table. Since there was no barbecue grill in sight, I assumed it was supposed to look that way. I was starving, and our hostess had just driven a steak tartare through my heart. It was after eight o’clock. The dining room table looked so inviting with a beautiful floral centerpiece, fine china, sterling silver cutlery, and gleaming stemmed goblets. Over my growling stomach, I heard, “Would you like to tour the house?” “Yes,” I shouted, looking forward to any excuse to escape that bleeding hunk of meat.
Gliding from room to room in her designer gown from Paris, Tami led the group--- and me---in my dress by Fannie, through their magnificent home, proudly describing the pedigree of each stick of furniture. Finally, she announced, “Dinner is served.” I eagerly offered to help. Following her into the kitchen, I saw one small salad, and one large kettle. An unusual, pungent aroma filled the air as she lifted the lid. I peeked into the pot and saw one large bay leaf floating in what looked like murky bath water.
The rest of the evening was a blur, because I did have that second shot of single malt scotch, but I distinctly remember seeing that brown leaf swirling in W.S’s bowl, and the hostess fishing it out in a huff, when he said, “I think something fell into my stew!”
Esther Blumenfeld
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006