Last night saw the monthly gathering of the girls, for one of our joyous dinners. I've always loved our get-togethers of Boothie, Cookie, Ms N and myself. We would always take it in turn to choose a nice restaurant, sample some great food, have great conversation, a lot of laughs, Cookie would always sexually harrass a waiter and then we'd head home.
Until one fateful day last October when Cookie said, "Tell you what girls, I'll cook for you next time. I'll do a proper Jamaican dinner."
"Oooh, lovely," said everyone. And it was.
Then Ms N invited us to her house next for dinner, and cooked some fantastic cous-cous, and we talked about life, love, and - in this particular case - poppers.
You see Boothie lives a long way away, so it wasn't feasible to go to hers. There was only one thing to be done. With reluctance I took a deep breath and said, "So, would you like to come to mine next time?" Why was I reluctant? Well, I don't cook a lot. And the last time I made food for Cookie, she insulted it, said she couldn't believe I didn't keep salt in the house, and told everyone I couldn't cook. I prefer the term "choose not to cook".
So it was not without a certain amount of trepidation I invited the girls over last night. But a lovely time was had by all. The chicken and mushroom risotto I cooked turned out pretty well, and my homemade chocolate orange truffles were a hit. I made sure there was a salt cellar in front of Cookie's place. Boothie said she had a cold and couldn't taste anything (and seemed worryingly a little bit grateful for that). Ms N was very complimentary.
Before we knew it, it was late late late, and as their cabs pulled up to take them off into the night, I went outdoors and measured my sodding Corsa's wheels. Don't ask.