BE MY GUEST
CAN YOU SEE US sweating? Me, in my apron. My husband, Peter, in jeans and a T-shirt, though our dinner guests are due in 19 minutes and the kitchen looks like a crime scene.
Only now do I realize with a jab to the heart that the goat cheese I had pictured hiding in the back of the fridge is a figment of my imagination. To substitute, I dump Walmart mixed nuts into a Mexican dish—lipstick on a pig—and fish out olives I bought three weeks ago from Whole Foods. Aged olives, I tell myself. A delicacy.
Peter ferries down a fleet of glasses to the island: white-wine glasses, red-wine glasses, champagne flutes. We look like alcoholics with a Pottery Barn account, which is, actually, not far from the truth.
