Last House on the Left

Despite promises to the contrary, it should be noted that we did not play Twister.

Celebrating a friend's landmark birthday plus one involved a big house on Church Hill, meeting new people and hours of food and drink. But despite the birthday boy's promise of a rousing game of Twister, it wasn't happening.

There was the college roommate I'd heard plenty about and her husband wearing a "Puglsey" t-shirt (he looks at me and points. "You were at "The Damned' screening last night, weren't you?" Guilty as charged).

There was the birthday boy's historian best friend (who now knows far too much about my sleeping habits, courtesy of our hostess) since third grade and his wife, whom I'd heard give history talks at lunchtime.

There was the DJ who discreetly let me know that he knows my former boyfriend. You and the rest of the world, my friend.

Even with meeting five strangers, I was barely one degree of separation from any of them. So Richmond.

Since it had only been a month since I'd last been to my friend's house, I was totally unprepared for how the formal dining room had morphed from a cramped space chock full of moving boxes to an inviting space with a table that sat ten (which came with the house) and a grand fireplace.

Nickle and dime tours of the estate were offered and I joined for the backyard tour, particularly admiring a shower head mounted to the fence. No one had a good reason for this placement. Me, I'd have bent down and showered under it, neighbors be damned.

The first few hours of the party were devoted to mingling and munching while the hostess prepared things for the dinner. I volunteered to roll cured meats and butter baguette slices, chores that require no kitchen talent but a tolerance for repetitive work while she did the heavy lifting.

I was consulted on the music selection and while I may have been the only one to take notice of the Spinners or Barry White on the R & B station, let the record show I did notice. A fellow music lover discussed trombones and brewery gigs with me.

The former Mexico-dweller, always a terrific source of colorful stories, told us about a friend of hers there who not only grew pot but used it to produce a feminine hygiene spray with a scent of eau de weed. Imagine how into that some guys (and girls) would be.

Dinner for ten was frogmore stew, aka a low country boil, with shrimp, two kinds of Belmont Butchery sausages, red potatoes, onions and corn on the cob. Separate bowls held broth in which to sop the juices with bread. The birthday boy had had it for Independence Day and liked it so much he ordered it up for his birthday.

I couldn't say a word. As was pointed out to me, I drag my birthday out for weeks, or a month when I can and I always believe in eating whatever I want to celebrate.

Dessert was clafoutis, the classic French tart, with tonight's versions being mixed berry and another with peaches and raspberries. Our hostess is nothing if not an excellent cook.

We were not expected to sing happy birthday, perhaps because of the copious amounts of wine and Pimm's Cups consumed by this point. After dinner, splinter groups broke off, one to the back porch and another to the living room so lively conversation could ensue.

Or at least that's what we told ourselves by this point in the evening.

Pru and I had long ago decided that we aspired to hold salons a la Gertrude Stein so evenings like tonight could be considered the seeds of those future evenings. We're vetting potential guests for worthiness.

But did anyone make a move for the Twister box? Did our hostess even have Twister at the ready? Here I was ready to spin and contort for the sake of a good game and nobody was having it.

Looks like somebody else is going to have to organize a night of Twister. Somebody who's not scared. You know I'm not afraid to bend over (or under) anyone for the sake of right hand, green or left foot, yellow.

Wait'll you see my birthday party.