Bubbling Over

Forget black-eyed peas for new year's day. Kroger had sold out by noon.

A moot point since I'd gotten invited to a Prosecco and prime rib party to celebrate the first day of 2014 and even though it was to be all couples except me, I RSVP'd with a resounding yes.

Good luck comes with more than just black-eyed peas, you know.

I was the last to show up and as I made the rounds to say hello, heard that three bottles of bubbles had been consumed before my arrival.

Is that just a champagne buzz or are you people really glad to see me?

Everyone had stories to share about what they'd done with their Christmas vacation - skiing in Aspen, seeing "Austin Powers" on the big screen, eating a birthday dinner at Mekong while Mekong Express played - while music as varied as Amos Lee and CSNY played at a volume loud enough to feel party-like.

Save me from parties where the music is low or non-existent.

But this one was lots of fun, with a picaresque turn into pink with Mumm Brut Rose, a little restaurant gossip and conversation about the eating and biking pleasures of Boston and Cambridge.

Soon a ceramic boat of shrimp arrived, but only after a discussion of how old the Old Bay in the house might be (new enough, it turned out), horseradish levels were discussed and adjusted in the cocktail sauce ("Every bite should clear your sinuses," according to the curly-haired one) and the visitor from Maryland proclaimed that the shrimp from Libbie market surpasses what she can get at the Annapolis seafood market.

Holiday-induced hyperbole perhaps, but the crustaceans were exceptional and steamed to the point of just done enough and not one bit more.

There were several architectural history lovers in the group, so I told tales of the Frank Lloyd Wright buildings I'd seen in Florida and was rewarded with details about one guy's pilgrimage to see Falling Water. Twice.

It's a very good party when I am listening to a man describe the corner windows of a Wright house.

One of the couples had just seen "Julie and Julia" and been taken with how late in life Julia had found the love of her life and her passion for what she wanted to do.

What I recalled from seeing the movie when it came out was how it made me immediately read Child's "My Life in France," which turned out unexpectedly to be one of the most romantic love stories I've ever read.

One woman's takeaway had been that Julia was always loopy when filming her TV show. Well, sure, that's certainly one way to enjoy your work.

Over succulent prime rib barely cooked to medium rare, I was asked why I don't use Twitter (can't limit myself to 140 characters- "No, that's a valid point with you," someone said) which led to a discussion of Hemingway, kissing in cars and why restaurants should not serve bubbly in coupe glasses.

The obscenely rich cheese sauce was such a hit that people were using it on meat, vegetable and rice, some even dredging bread in it, resulting in questions about its origins.

Seems our hostess had asked a cook at Libbie market for a cheese sauce and he'd obligingly whipped one up right in front of her.

White sauce, grated cheese, boom, done.

Someone told a hysterical story about going into a trendy, new restaurant in Baltimore and asking for lemon in her water. The haughty, twenty-something server informed her that lemons weren't locally in season, so they didn't have any.

Wrong thing to say. The woman asked if the coffee was local. Or the potatoes. Or...Needless to say, lemons were procured from the bar immediately for her water.

Don't challenge an analytical mind. They always have a counter-argument.

When we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was only to re-situate ourselves in a bigger room for Poilvert-Jacques champagne, an elegantly floral sipper to accompany a dessert tray of baklava, cupcakes and pumpkin bread.

Every baked bite, like the shrimp, prime rib and cheese sauce, had come from Libbie market. It's a wonder the woman was even able to move away from Richmond and leave her beloved market behind.

I'm not sure if it was the bubbles or the sugar rush, but the conversation eventually deteriorated to one about Google's far-reaching tentacles and how that'll inevitably lead to micro-chips being inserted into nether regions to keep track of men behaving badly.

I couldn't make this stuff up. One minute it's Hemingway and, as a guest pointed out, the next it's d*ck chips.

Our host scored major points with several guests by playing the Ennio Morricone soundtrack to "A Fistful of Dollars," a film I'd never seen despite much of the music sounding vaguely familiar.

That whistling, the epic swelling choruses, the crystalline sound of whips cracking, it all added a dramatic backdrop to the many La Marca Prosecco-fueled conversations then going on in the room.

Not quite as traditional as hoppin' john for good luck in the new year, but a party of smart people, terrific food and endless bubbles portends good things for 2014.

For better or for worse, though, if you're interested, you'll have to hear about them in way more than 140 characters.

Lobster Convention

I can only be so bad when I'm going to see my Mom in the morning.

So when Holmes invited me to join him and his beloved for a dinner party on the deck, I enthusiastically say yes.

After all, on an 88-degree day, there can be no better place than on someone's deck when they're grilling out.

When I arrive, things are already lively with a Languedoc to drink and various kitchen chores to participate in.

More than willing to earn my keep, I am soon skewering shrimp, making rice pilaf, steaming lobster tails and melting butter.

I am nothing, if not adaptable.

We debate whether to eat inside or out, the 75-degree weather calling us to eat al fresco, but the mosquitoes challenging the one with the sweet meat among us.

Eventually, we settled for a three-wick citronella candle and a view of the pale blue sky.

Holmes' special sauce for the shrimp is made while we set the table, fluff the rice and make foil packets for the vegetables and tomatoes with Parmesan.

We are like a well-oiled machine, except without the oil.

The result is great hilarity, with multiple bottles of wine being opened and consumed, and endless courses of food prepared and put out on the deck tables.

His beloved is as big an art geek as I am, so we take a tangent about Tom Wesselamann and the art of the '60s.

Holmes tolerates our tangent before bringing us back to the matter at hand: food and wine.

He gives us a lecture on the benefits of charcoal over a gas grill while the beloved and I steal light and creamy La Marca Prosecco from the refrigerator and begin the bubbly portion of the evening.

The food is fabulous and Holmes keeps reminding us what a steal of a deal it all was.

He says the lobster tails were dirt cheap, the crab legs were being "given away," the wine was $6 a bottle and before long we are convinced that he has spent almost no money entertaining us tonight.

But given the black outlines against the blue sky, we decide it's not about the cost, but about the company.

When Holmes starts up the music, it's Ian Matthews and Fairport Convention and neither his beloved nor I have any familiarity with either.

That said, Matthews' voice is stellar, his songwriting compelling and the music so well done that I can't believe I've never heard of this person or group.

Holmes tells us how important Fairport Convention were, practically the most significant English folk rock band.

This is a big part of the appeal of Holmes' dinner parties, because I always hear good music and inevitably lean more about music than I knew when I arrived.

And that's after eating huge amounts of good food and indulging in multiple terrific wines along the way.

And while we didn't get far enough to make the bananas foster as we'd intended, the congenial conversation, abundance of eats and non-stop wine eventually give way to me taking my leave before the clock strikes twelve.

And that's a good thing.

Mom doesn't need to see me wilted after a typical night with Holmes and Co.

Better she think I spent the evening preparing for my luncheon with her.

You can fool your Mom some of the time, but you can't fool your Mom all of the time.

I'll settle for tomorrow and call it a draw.