When I was a kid, I used to read “The Joy of Cooking” and imagine the elaborate parties I would someday throw for the friends I was certain adulthood would bring me.
One friend would debut a play, naturally, and everyone would come back to my apartment afterward for cocktails and canapés on the fire escape. Another would become pregnant with twins, necessitating a baby shower brunch in my garden. Someone else would fall in love and decide to marry quietly at the courthouse, after which we’d repair to my kitchen, where I’d produce a layer cake covered in edible flowers and generous plops of whipped cream. We’d eat it with forks, still dressed in our wedding finery.
