The following is an account of a gathering of the VIV writing collective. All names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.
The Dinner Party
We met on a Sunday at a house that we rented close to Wilmington, North Carolina. We planned a retreat to last for four days and five nights, over the course of which, we would discuss future plans for the publication This and Other Things. We decided to meet for dinner, which I arrived early to cook. By the time everyone arrived, there were six VIV staff writers, including myself.
Preparing the menu was difficult, as many of the guests had varying dietary restrictions to accommodate; at least two weren’t regular meat eaters, one didn’t eat pork, and another had a gluten intolerance.
We started with finger foods that I arranged on plates in the living room as everyone arrived. I made a large pot of lamb meatballs in a roasted red pepper and chickpea sauce, potato skins with kale pesto and topped with parmesan, and tomato-mango salsa with blue corn tortilla chips.
“I’m sorry,” Gabby said to me as I was in the kitchen finishing dinner. “I’m gonna fill up on meatballs before you even serve dinner.”
“That’s a compliment,” I said, “I’m glad you like them.”
“What are you even making for dinner? It smells awesome in here, but I feel bad you’re busting your ass while we all lounge in the living room.”
Just as Gabby finished, Sabrina, Noah, Angie and Hallie entered the kitchen with the platters of appetizers. The kitchen was large and there was a large island in the middle of the room with stools on the opposite side of the stove where I tended to steaks on the stovetop in two different cast iron pans.
“We wanted to help you cook,” Noah said and stood next to me at the stove. He grabbed the cast iron that I wasn’t tending, and he tilted the pan like I did to spoon butter over the top of the steak.
“He wanted to help you cook,” Hallie said.
“Me and Hallie were fine eating this salsa in the living room,” Sabrina said, “but Noah made us feel bad. But we can eat in here and watch you cook.”
“This is all so good, Chief,” Angie said. “You’re really showing out for us. What are you making for dinner?”
“I’m making steak, spring salad with roasted asparagus, and this obscure recipe I found that I thought would be a good conversation piece.”
“Sounds amazing, Chief,” Angie said.
“Chief,” Sabrina scoffed, “you don’t have to kiss up to her, you’re already an editor.”
“I’m not kissing up,” Angie said. “I’m just showing respect for what she’s done. She’s brought us all together and she’ll always be my Chief.”
Everyone lifted their glasses of wine and said cheers to me, the Editor in Chief of This and Other Things. I felt immense pride in their respect.
“I couldn’t have done any of this without all of you. And that’s why I’m cooking my ass off to show you all my gratitude.”
“Glass of wine, Chief?” Hallie said, already pouring.
“Thanks. Noah, these steaks are done, put them on that plate next to the stove. And if one of you can grab the bowl of salad from the fridge, and the asparagus from the oven. There’s an oven mitt over there.”
Noah took the steaks to the table as Sabrina and Angie grabbed the salad and asparagus. Hallie sat eating appetizers at the bar while I stirred the pot of thick cheese sauce on a back burner of the stove.
“Hold up!” Hallie said when everyone moved the appetizers to the dining room table. She followed the tomato-mango dip to the table.
“Are we ready to eat?” Noah asked.
“Please,” I said, “everybody please eat. I swear, I’m just finishing up this sauce and toasting bread. It’s gluten free bread.”
“You don’t have to tell them to start eating,” Noah said. We both looked back at everyone enjoying themselves at the table. “You really made an amazing spread. I knew you could cook, but this is some Top Chef level stuff. What’s that sauce you’re making? And what kind of beer is this?” He picked up the large, empty bottle.
“It’s Welsh, I ordered it online specially for this occasion. This is a rarebit sauce.”
“Rabbit sauce?” Noah asked.
“That’s how some people pronounce it. I said rarebit. I found this really old book, Welsh Rarebit Tales about these people who have a dinner party where they eat this dish.”
“What kind of book is it?” Noah asked.
“It’s a collection of stories that the people at the dinner party tell. Apparently Welsh Rarebit gives you strange dreams. I was looking at recipes and was curious to try it. Can you arrange that bread on the pan and put the oven on broil for me?”
While Noah did that, I finished the sauce and then poured it over the bread in the pan. It was a thick sauce that oozed from the pan and thinned to gooey ribbons.
“It smells awesome,” Noah said. “You trying to give us bad dreams, Chief?”
“It’s not true,” I said. “Go eat, I’ll finish this.” Noah went to the table. I topped each slice of bread with the sauce and put the pan under the broiler for about five minutes, then took the pan of cheesy, toasted bread with me to the dining room table.
“Now we eat,” I said as I served myself from the food, “and discuss the future.”
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