Her dinner parties were legend. At last count, they were credited with three marriages, one invention, two minor fires, at least four babies, and one and a half affairs. Don't even try to count the stolen kisses; she lost count in the late 90s.
The secret? Her dinner parties began long after dinner, her menus included a majority of foods that begged to be picked up and devoured and always elicited prolonged moans, and she rarely invited the same mix of people twice. Unless they begged and sent her blooms. A huge part of any brilliant dinner party is a guest list that's grateful to be there...
She also encouraged love. Insisted on it, even. If you're ever lucky enough to be invited to one of her dinners, you'll be expected to turn to your left and then your right at some point during the night, look another deep in the eyes, and find something to love. And then say it. Twice. It shocked her sometimes how difficult it seemed for people to love each other, and be proud to shout it from the rooftops. To her, love was something that should be shouted from the rooftops.
Truthfully, there were also whispers of magic and potions; the wine bottles were label-free with a hand-painted heart on them, and there was always at least one taste that perplexed even the fiercest foodie. Is it Pomegranate? No, wait. Garlic. No...Quinoa? Mmm...Persimmon? But she just smiled and giggled at their dizziness.
A little dizziness turns any conversation to dazzling.
Speaking of dazzling, she had something extra special planned for her next. She'd fallen in love so many times over the years and over the courses that she'd started wondering lately if she was doing it right. It was starting to feel somewhat ordinary. Wonderful, but ordinary.
So she'd invited a friend of a friend of a neighbor of a friend who she'd never, ever met. Arranged the seating accordingly. And mixed an even more special potion than usual. And let the butterflies play.
Oh, she couldn't wait to meet her.
Invite me to this party, will you?
