I needn’t have worried; it was a really great night. My brother’s wines were a huge hit (if you’re a wino, he recommended a Justin cabernet as a cocktail wine and a Catena Alta Reserva Cabernet as a dinner wine. Both are light and very yummy). The food turned out well and the PITA dessert was devoured. The company was terrific and the conversation was excellent.
Only two things happened that gave me a moment’s pause. One was my husband. I’d asked him to come up with a thoughtful, articulate toast to the mothers at the table, since it was Mother’s Day Eve. He appeared to have forgotten his duty and so, when prompted, just raised his glass and said, “To all the mothers.” We thought that was his opening remark and kept our glasses raised, but he just started drinking his wine. I glared and him and he shrugged and said, “Better than saying ‘to all the motherf***ers.’” Okay, thanks, now be quiet and drink your wine.
The second problem occurred right around dessert. Bo had made his way into the dining room, and under the table, but I don’t think he was flirting with anyone’s crotch. He seemed to be lying there quietly. And, we quickly discovered, FARTING. I think it was a strategic plan to asphyxiate the guests, clear the room and eat all the food. It was a pretty disruptive sneak attack, because you can’t actually remove a 90 lb. dog from a room containing steak. So we just had to suffer. And hold our breaths.
Other than those two things, it was perfect. I’d have a dinner party every weekend if I could afford it.
But I’d give the dog Beano and do the toast myself.