We're Having 'What-the-Hell-Is-This?' for Christmas!

We're having a Christmas Party tonight. ("What? It's no longer Christmas," you say? Well, bite me.)

Now, these are not friends that are coming over. Nope, not friends at all - they are Rolf's co-workers. And when I told some of them that we kicked our friend Bemmy out by dropping a note on his keyboard and ran for the hills; Rolf nearly had a stroke. Because They Are Not Our Friends. Or His Friends.

And He's Invited Them To Dinner.

Yeah, there's a lot more to that story. The long and short of it is: I'm not supposed to drink too much around these people, and I'm not supposed to cast any nasturtiums on his not quite cold dead body in front of them. But I kid . . .

I can't wait. They're fun people. At that party, (his Christmas work party, hosted by his boss who IS MY FRIEND and has been for fifteen years . . . ) where I was drinking lots and lots of Absolute Citron (Cold and Neat); there is a lesbian couple, who I delight in, even if I can't always remember their names. And I volunteered to sing at their "Wedding". (In quotes - because it is so illegal in Virginia that it wouldn't surprise me if photo's of the "Wedding" were used to round us all up and shoot us.)

Anyway, they're coming. And that couple who's wedding was so wonderful back in May; they're coming too. Plus another couple who frighten me.

And none of them are our friends.

I'm not buying it.

When I get home, at 5:30, I'm making fresh angel hair pasta. I'm sauteing scallopined chicken (do you know what I mean?), zucchini, and green peppers, and making a sauce out of the chicken stock I made last night, with olive oil, white wine and capers. And I'm serving it along side the fresh pasta, which I am not doing much to at all. Why mess with perfection? It's getting blessed with the finest Olive Oil and Parmesan Cheese (both brought back from Italy.) Add a salad of Arugula, cucumbers, and Parmesan, some appetizers, and Chianti and it should be a fun night. Except I'm scared to death that when they leave Rolf is going to yell at me and make me cry again.

Desert is Poached Pears and Zabaglione. That's done. But everything else needs to be made in the two hours before they show up. I already have the table set. The maids haven't been this week, so if Rolf wants dusting and vacuuming done, he'd better do it himself.

After all, these aren't my friends.