Dinner Party

Gigi, Karlei, and I were lying in a circle at Sheep Meadow in Central Park when we decided to throw a dinner party. It was one of the first sunny Mondays of springtime. The grass was wet. It soaked through the knitted blanket I brought and drenched our work clothes while we brainstormed the menu and guest list. 

Invitees had an assignment: bring a plus one that the group doesn’t know. Aside from that, we followed the standard recipe for a successful Saturday evening dinner party in New York City. 

The days leading up were a whirlwind of prepping focaccia dough, dragging folding tables down sidewalks, and searching every grocery store and farmers market in a sixteen-block radius for rhubarb.

We were rewarded on Saturday afternoon when the aroma of freshly baked rhubarb upside-down cake floated through the apartment. Karlei brushed herb gremolata over crispy artichoke hearts. Chicken piccata sizzled in a frying pan. Gigi sprinkled garlic breadcrumbs over lemon orzo. I set the table with bouquets of spring flowers as our guests began to arrive.

Plus ones from all walks of life poured into our kitchen: friends from birth, from middle and high school, from time spent abroad, from coffee shop meet cutes, from work. We wiped serving platters clean and dripped bottles of wine dry. The conversation wandered as our pink candlesticks melted to stubs.