A couple of times a year I throw a real dinner party. Not the order-pizza-and-paper-plates kind — the kind where I plan the menu for a week, shop for two days, and cook for three. This time I invited five people: two couples and one single friend I’ll call Dana.
The night before, Dana texted me: “Hope it’s okay, I’m bringing someone.” I told her, honestly, that it wasn’t okay — the meal was already planned and portioned for six, counting me. She read the message. She did not reply.
The next evening Dana arrived with a woman named Priya, who I had never met, who walked straight past me, sat down at my set table, and asked what we were having. Everyone went quiet. I had exactly enough food for the people I’d cooked for.
Priya didn’t seem embarrassed at all. She unfolded a napkin, complimented the centerpieces, and mentioned she was “starving.” Dana wouldn’t meet my eyes. My other guests suddenly became very interested in their water glasses, and I stood in my own dining room doing the math every host dreads: six plates, six portions, six chairs — and seven people.
I thought about stretching the food. I really did. I could have carved my own portion into two thin servings, or quietly gone without. But something in me had had enough — the unanswered text, the way she walked past me without a hello, the assumption that my week of work would simply expand to cover anyone who wandered in.
So I made a decision in about four seconds. I went to my freezer, took out a frozen dinner, microwaved it, and set it down in front of Priya with a fork and a smile. “This is what I have for guests I didn’t know were coming,” I said. Then I served everyone else the meal I’d made.
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