Pieces of the night are still coming to me. I remember asking you if I should make another cucumber saketini, to which you responded, "Hell, yeah." Bad, bad move. I remember cracking eggs, and saying, "Phil’s going to kill me when he realizes so many eggs are gone."
"Yeah, he is." You said it as if you knew some breakfast rule about couples and ingredients, as if I were making sense. After making crawfish étouffée, our plan had been to make The Paperbag Princess Tutus and to watch Precious while the men were off grunting at another house about the Dallas Cowboys. But then there I was cracking open Thomas Keller’s Bouchon Cookbook, searching the index for "chocolate."
You went to check on Max, who was asleep in his feety pajamas, and by the time you returned to the kitchen, I was running warm water to fill a deep baking sheet for the pots de creme.
No planning, just happened to have 2 1/2 cups of heavy cream in the fridge. Jesus, that makes me fat. I still can’t believe I had the wherewithal to find ramekins, and to use a double boiler to melt chocolate. I wasn’t even on crack. But those eviltini’s have a life of their own. Alexandra was right. "They kill everything inside." Including my liver.
I was soooo out of commission on Sunday. I just lied in bed and begged Phil to bring me grease. Anything and everything to sop up the alcohol. "But I thought we weren’t eating bread," he said with a smirk.
"I didn’t ask for bread. I asked for toast. There’s a difference."
Friend, while you were puking into white drawstring kitchen bags downstairs, I’d fallen asleep upstairs in bed. Now, you know it’s bad when you then wake from your passed out state, just to vomit. I mean, you’re not dizzy, but your body wants to reject things. I WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT to vomitando… everywhere in the bathroom. So gross. I haven’t done that since I was impregnito (the puke thing, not the drinking thing). I feel terrible. Worse, I imagine, than people who wake up after a key party.
I keep thinking, shit now we’ll never do it again! It’s like that one time when you were sixteen and got loaded on Sambuca, now you can’t look at a licorice stick without puking in your mouth. You’ll forever associate our house with bed spins. That was our chance to have an adult sleepover, and we blew it. Literally. I thought there would be breakfast, with fresh squeezed juices, crumpets and berries, poached eggs. We’d watch the kids play trains. But you were still down on your knees come morning, and I had to crawl, yes crawl, over to Abigail, Lucas, and Max for a tea party, as our men shook their heads laughing at me. And to think you were up all night, and two days later, still feeling it, I’m so sorry.
I was relieved when I got your text, "Friends who puke together, stay together." I do hope we can do it again, without the drinks. Just board games and movies and crafts. And maybe the custard. A real tea party, crawling optional. We can even wear our tutus. At least we stuck to part of the plan.
3 YEARS AGO: Good Day
5 YEARS AGO: Trombones