Dinner party no no

I love dinner parties. Actually I love lunch, brunch, drinks, other people’s, mine, and life’s too short parties. Well that’s what I thought, ’til I attended a dinner party on Saturday night and it made me examine what it is exactly that turns me on - and off - a party.

My husband who doesn’t love all parties unequivocally like I do, or thought I did, was dreading the other night’s . I put on my glad rags, shook out my hair and - as my mother would say - put a smile on my dial. Dinner was at my son’s friend’s parents. Didn’t know who else would be there. Gathering turned out to include a very tall ex-basketball player now v. hot ad exec and his extremely short wife, as well as fabulous gay Brit couple who are running a wine farm in Franschoek(or more accurately Fauxhoek for its self-styled quaint Frenchie flavour. Restaurants called Terroir, and Le Petite Ferme just get my goat. It’s the southern tip of Africa dammit!)

So company turned out well; my husband was LOVING the basketball player, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it until dessert. It was the food. Now I am no food snob - I am generally happy with any nosh, especially if it’s made by someone else - but this was dire. Of chief concern was a decidedly odd version of a Waldorf salad with no nuts and no celery. And let’s be honest, nuts are the best part of a Waldorf salad. So I ended up eating three plain but excellent baked potatoes to fill me up. Why was this dish so dire I wondered, when the hostess is the daughter of a Greek restaurant owner and a great cook in her own right?

Well the answer was food allergies. Turns out the wife of the ex-basketball player is allergic to bloody everything. Meat, nuts, cream, cucumber, rice, bread, wine, strawberries (currently in season), and onions. And that’s all I can remember of what was mentioned. My poor hostess was only informed that afternoon so the meal had to be amended last minute.

My thesis then is that the greatest enemy of the successful dinner party is the abstainer; those who abstain from food (regardless of reason; picky eaters, allergies, pregnancy, people on diets be they wheat free, or whatever) and caramba! those, and they do exist who just don’t like food. And the reason is not because it restricts your proposed menu - although in my Greek hostess’s case it ruined a potentially good Waldorf salad - but because it enters the conversation.

And conversation, I propose, is what a good party is all about. Discussions about food allergies, diets, and what pregnant gals cannot eat just kill a party. I would rather dinner descended into a heated argument about George Bush-whacker than listen to dull mentions of food preferences.

So come for dinner at me, and you’ll get food and I hope some great conversation. The food will be tasty if a little unadventurous. If you can’t eat something, just quietly feed it to Audrey, my Siamese. But please don’t make a fuss. Oh and I don’t countenance discussions of crime or emigration either.

No more pillow blogging

Egad. Down on the southern tip of Africa, dipping your toes into the Atlantic Ocean is best left for the hottest days, or a well-prepared wetsuit clad surfer, or a masochist. Today I am taking the plunge. Not into our icy waters, but into that great scary sea called the blog. I am putting my words out there and we will see where they are washed up.

In truth, there is no reason to be scared. I have composed hundreds of blogs. Some have been really funny, some insightful, some just a rant. Unfortunately they have all been in my head, conjured up in the dead of night. When day finally dawns, they have all but evaporated, leaving behind a few pithy comments which linger ’til lunchtime - and then are gone. Entirely.

So, no more more pillow blogging. I must say, a hundred or so words in, and I feel better already. Certainly cheaper than my shrink who I am currently avoiding to allow our bank account to accommodate my husband’s own overpriced therapist.

I have always said thought that at some time in your life, everyone should see a shrink, and I still believe that. You get to pay someone to listen to your rants and wipe your tears, or at least hand you a box of tissues for you to wipe your own tears as those dratted professional boundaries seem to preclude physical contact between client and doctor. Sometimes you just need a damned hug.

My parents generation doesn’t seem to feel quite the same way about therapy as I do. My father - the surgeon - only rates one shrink and only because the guy got a first for surgery at medical school. When speaking of shrinkage, my father always tells the same true story: he sent a patient to see this shrink who called him back the next day with a diagnosis. “It’s FITH disease, and there’s no known cure,” he told my Dad. “What that?” the cutting king asked. “FITH stands for f*cked in the head.” Followed by much roaring of laughter.

But our generation does seem to have embraced the notion of therapy more wholeheartedly, and with less judgment. Everyone I know has been to see one at some time in the last 15 years. And I think the reason blogging has become ubiquitous is because blogging is the new therapy. This is because it has more upside than therapy; it costs nothing, you’re talking to more than one (hopefully) person, and maybe if you ask for it, someone can send you a cyber hug.

So expect some introspection on this blog, but more probably some comments, rants, and laughs at my expense about my world on the southern tip of Africa. And a very nice place it is to be indeed.