Tonight, for the first time in my natural born life, I’m invited my parents over for dinner.
This would have been fine if I wasn’t also cat-sitting, teaching two week-long tap intensives and meeting my brother’s girlfriend for happy hour as soon as I get off work (I’m really looking forward to this because she is way cooler than any of his past girlfriends have been, it just means that I’ve got to do the prep work now, before I start slinging cocktails).
Also? My father’s response to my invitation didn’t exactly help matters.
He said (and I’m repeating this verbatim), “What are you going to be serving? It better not be that peanut butter chicken you always make.”
“Of course not,” I assured him. In truth though, “that peanut butter chicken” (which is, more accurately, a delightful peanut satay) had in fact comprised the pièce de résistance of my intended menu.
I did pan fry a nice steak earlier this week, thanks to a Gordon Ramsey tutorial on Youtube, about half a stick of butter and the terrifying thought of getting yelled at in Hell’s Kitchen.
But I’m all out of steak now.
So naturally, I’ve been up since 6:00am trawling Pinterest for other options. I have a general theme in mind (quinoa and something that goes nicely with the Indian silk napkins I picked up at a sidewalk sale in Center City).
(These napkins, by the way, though inedible, are my new pièce de résistance. I even sent PIC into work with one so he can pick up flowers that match on his lunch break.)
Being the supportive boyfriend that he is, PIC keeps hinting that he might not actually come home tonight and that I should enjoy dinner without him if that’s the case.
And being the loving girlfriend that I am, I am telling him DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. I WILL KILL YOU.
So, your turn now: worst dinner party story ever? Go.