Tea and Croquet

cake or death by blackenedman.

I was recently invited to a party. I confess that I didn’t want to go, and it was easy to bow out, as I didn’t feel particularly obligated, either. I was on vacation when the plans were made, and the party was for members of a poetry forum. They’re people I know in real life, yes, but they’re acquaintances. I’ve never shared a restaurant- or home-cooked meal with them, spoken with them on the telephone, dropped in when I was in the neighborhood. Their kids don’t go to school with mine, and I don’t run into them at the Safeway. This isn’t to say that I don’t like them; I do, indeed, enjoy some of them. But if I didn’t show, I was not likely to miss important gossip; people wouldn't ask after me, talk about me behind my back.

A few other things made this party invitation easy to decline. First, I am in the middle of cutting glass for a mosaic job, and my time is limited. Second, the host lives twenty miles away--about 41 minutes, according to Google Maps. Third, it has been hot and muggy as a motherfucker; who wants to go anywhere? Fourth, the host has a pool, which would involve the requisite clothing removal, and if I were at all willing to do that, I wouldn’t have reason number fifth: I’m on a strict diet.

The best way to weaken your resolve is to stand with sixteen people in someone's kitchen, watching them all make orgasm faces over a guest's gooey brownies, listening to them rave about another's fresh-baked bread, and smelling the yeasty breath of good beer (poets know how to drink, and the wealthier ones discriminate).

So I e-mailed my regrets.

"Come," said the host. "We'll drink iced tea and play croquet."

You’re rolling your eyes; that’s weak, you’re thinking. Tea and croquet? Ahhh, but I am a sucker for what appears to others as a pathetic attempt. To me, it’s charming. (My husband wooed me in our youth with, "Awww, c'mon.") So that was all it took. I fretted a little that I wouldn't even be able to drink the tea, but stevia saved the day.

I needed a plan to stay on plan, so I did a google search for “great Greek salad” and made Rachel Ray’s version.* I figured I could nurse that baby instead of sucking down a beer and pacifying myself with baked goods.

When I arrived at the party at 1:00, Julie was denuding a roasted chicken, Pat and Bill were preparing bean stuffing for wraps, and Carmen, Julie’s husband, was arriving with tortillas and his infamous chili (last party I went to, I’d had seconds four times, until I and a few others decided to eat right from the serving bowl). As I dressed the salad, Bill unwrapped his homemade brownies.

Wait, I thought. Nothing in me is jangling. I have no restless sweet tooth syndrome. I’m not jonesing.

You and I know that a party is all about the food and beverages—never mind the people. You spend the afternoon or evening holding a plate of food or a cookie in one hand and a beer bottle or wine glass in the other. But I ate my salad, topped with a little chicken, and then I threw away my plate. Alan, the host, made sure my glass was always full of tea (I added some extra stevia). And nothing solid passed my lips for the next three hours.

I’d been in the midst of a food relationship epiphany for several days (I prefer the taste of Altoids sugar-free cinnamon gum to almost anything), but this was beyond what I thought were my limits.

The party was held in bucolic Baldwin, Maryland, home of cornfields and rifles, in the eclecticly furnished home of Alan and Nora (and two odd little dogs). Nora is studying feng shui in New York, and while I don’t often buy what many people call “new age hooey,” I felt oddly at peace from the moment I arrived. I don’t know if it was the Happy Buddha by the front door or the placement of the black velvet Joker-style sofa I instantly coveted (just slightly more than Nora’s shoes), but something had soothed the savage beast of my hunger. For instance, I felt no urge, at any time, to lick the brownie pan or stuff cookies down my throat. I was comfortable in a way I’ve not ever been at a party, and this one full of near-strangers.

To celebrate our poet-ness, Alan had a recording of Ginsburg playing in the basement—“poetry listening room.” Two sheets of paper were taped to the living room fireplace—one requesting us each to add a line (to an already awful poem), the other asking for a haiku (mine: “thwack of plastic balls / smack of lips, splash of water / party at Shadow’s”). On the TV was a documentary about beat poetry with the volume down so that “poetry-writing music” could fill the air. Maybe I was relaxed because of the music. I must have been ready for my massage!

After my safe and delicious Greek salad, I played croquet with Dan, Alan, and Carmen--came in second behind our host, who discovered the only way to beat this girl who hasn’t played the game in 35 years was to roquet her green ball into the state park behind us. Now that I know his strategy, I’ll get him next time.

After the game, I was still under the feng shui spell of this house, and, as if possessed with the spirit of someone who is absolutely not inhibited, I changed into my suit and went outside for a dip in the pool. I chatted with the two couples chicken fighting, and then I got out and visited with the purple-haired Alice, bubble martial artist, and her friends.

At four, just moments before the impromptu poetry was about to start, I said my goodbyes. Perfect timing.

Fairy Barbie Cake

Moments after I’d walked through my back door, taking high-fives from the dogs for my not having drunk the Cuba libres nor tasted a crumb of dessert, my neighbor arrived. My nemesis was waiting next door.

“I’ll show that birthday cake who’s boss,” I told my neighbor. Without fear (after all, I’d conquered four whole hours of brownie temptation), I pushed my way through to her dining room. There it was. Cake in all its butter cream splendor. Cake in five layers with icing between each. Cake in the shape of a ball gown, Fairy Barbie plunged through the middle and bod-iced. I confronted her with an iron will rather than the steel knife on the plate beside her. I took out my camera and snapped shots of her from every angle like some kind of frosting pornographer. And when I was finished, I laughed at her.

I won.

I hope I will always remember the Sunday in July when I learned that cake does not rule me. But I learned something that I thought ceased to be true after sixteen: It is possible to have fun at a party without a full stomach and a light head.


-----

*The best Greek salad ever. I added lettuce.