In the late 1990s, with our cranky babies having grown into cranky college freshmen, the small group of friends we’d formed eighteen years ago was anxious to rediscover some quality time. Forever we’d bonded over frugal potluck suppers, happy enough for the adult contact and a change of scenery. Now we were middle-aged, more affluent, and longing to pursue the elegant lifestyle we’d coveted all those years while up to our ears in squeaky violins and soccer cleats. So when the annual “Dinner Parties” issue of Bon Appétit caught my eye at the market, I thought I’d plan one. At last, the time in our lives had come when the need for babysitters and carpools had ceased. Finally, we could buy good steaks and still pay the electric bill! Early the next morning I strategized, picking out tentative dates and shifting names around for a guest list. “Two weeks from Saturday,” I told them. “Can’t wait!” they replied.
A week went by and menu planning became my obsession. I thumbed through the card file. I unfolded dozens of newspaper recipes I’d been meaning to try. I pored over cookbooks and magazines. I really wanted this to be a knockout meal. What to make? The trusty filet with cognac and shallots? No, Louise doesn’t eat red meat. That fabulous chicken with lemon and sundried tomatoes? Strike two, Jody’s recent conversion to vegetarianism nixed that plan. Grilled salmon with teriyaki glaze? Rob’s diverticulitis could never handle those sesame seeds.
“Shrimp Scampi,” I said to the dog. Her ears perked at the sound of my voice, as if to signal her approval. Then she settled back into a ball on the rug. Scampi would be elegant, easy, but then I remembered Paul’s cholesterol. Okay, no shrimp. No seeds. No red meat. No meat at all.
What about a huge vegetable lasagna, I thought. A sophisticated one, with sauteed fennel
and radicchio, smoked mozzarella, spinach pasta … But suddenly I realized pasta is strictly
forbidden on Rachel’s no-carb diet, and how could I have overlooked Bruce’s low-fat
regimen. No lasagna. Now what? Call for Chinese takeout? Pizza? Fred’s blood pressure would never come down after all of that sodium.
I put down my pen and stared at the piece of paper, still blank except for the single word
“Menu” across the top. Here we were, at last, really grownups, with really obnoxious dietary restrictions. I picked up the phone and started calling. “Potluck,” I instructed. “Bring your favorite dish.” Just like the old days.