I had a party the other weekend. It was my birthday, not a special one. Just grown ups, fizzy wine, gin and nibbles.
The prospect of under-feeding people is an anathema to me. Imagine someone being hungry at my table, in my house? The last golden crisp in a shared bowl or perfectly cheesy corner of the lasagne dish call to me, only me. I have to make sure that there are plenty of tasty bits. You may leave my home stuffed, hopefully never hungry. There will be plenty of food at my house for my friends, my family.
Hungry and hangry people make bad guests, so I spent a lot of Friday night cooking dips dips dips. A romescu that I teach a lot, beetroot and walnut hummus, guacamole, butternut and yoghurt. Bags and bags of budget tortilla chips. There may have been off-brand frazzles (thanks Liz). Bowls and bowls of the stuff. Plenty of fizz and gin too, of course.
I attempted a bread stick recipe. Pro tip: don’t try a new bread recipe at 11pm on a Friday night when you are powered by pinot. In. the. bin.
I could have gone to the shops and bought all of this. I know my guests aren’t coming to a Saturday night party for dip (at least I hope not). Cooking and providing for my guests is my way of showing affection and gratitude that they chose to spend their precious Saturday night with me. Using my Friday night to roast veg, half arse those breadsticks and use all four power settings on my immersion blender was my thank you. Add into that a Spotify Britpop playlist, a Manics sing-along, and I was happy as larry.
Every time I looked up, people were smiling and chatting. Well trained, I kept glasses full. My kitchen was full of people who bring me happiness. Happy birthday me.