Things happened on Saturday night. Things like Blake and Lucy showing up with arms full of cheese, shell-shocked from the heat wave and seeing a certain artist’s installation on Park Avenue. Things like Blake pitting all the cherries while everyone cheered him on. Things like this awesome t-shirt Kanishka and Juli gave me. Things like Magda’s expertly assembled “appetizing” of salmon tartar on cucumber with creme fraiche.
Once the pie was in the oven, we sat for a cold dinner of brandade de morue, cucumber and lemon salad, deviled eggs, duck prosciutto, a farro salad, um, and other things.
After the pie had cooled enough, it came to table. Tamas scooped dollops of sour cream ice cream on each plate to accompany it. Then the hush every hostess hopes for.
That’s when things got questionable. Something about Tuscan Pie. Something about Muslims introducing certain animals to Southern India. Something about Hollywood, a certain circular museum and a rather large drill hall. Something about Walt Disney — I don’t quite remember what. Plastic surgery might have been mentioned. Perhaps it was last year’s homemade sour cherry liquor talking. Spouses began assigning fictional heritages to their mates. Texas was mentioned quite a bit. I should stop there.
Let’s just say the cheese was not eaten that evening. And that some people selflessly had seconds of pie and ice cream.
As far as I know everyone got home safely. My next door neighbor, Ruth got the remaining sliver of pie the next morning.