We’re having a friend, her husband, and her tween daughter over for bunch on Sunday. It’s supposed to be over 90 degrees. I have no idea what to make. It’s been so hot. Just the thought of turning on the oven makes me sweat. So far, I have fruit salad. Mimosas or sangria? My favorite sangria recipe is a bit too potent for brunch, so I’d need to tone it down a bit. Thoughts?
Catch used to have a friend who called me Molly Stewart. I was the queen of entertaining. I don’t know what happened, but we rarely entertain anymore. My hostess skills are rusty. It really sank in last night for the first time that I will have to clean and pretty the house AND prepare food this weekend. For people who are not my wife and who may actually care whether the napkins are clean and the silverware all matches. (WHERE DO ALL OF THE TEASPOONS DISAPPEAR TO? Did they get cold and run off to a house that eats less ice cream? Are they resentful over the lack of dish sauna—aka dishwasher—in our household?)
Anyway, it all sounds so exhausting. Do you suppose Amazon will deliver a prepared brunch—still warm and in appropriate serving dishes?
Brunch was not supposed to be the point of this post. I sat down to tell you about how hard the past few weeks have been. How depressed I am. How as I sobbed into our couch cushions on Tuesday evening, I considered how much easier it would be if I could just cease to exist.
Life goes on, though, doesn’t it? There is work to be done. Housework. Marriage work. Health work. Job work. It’s endless, really. All I can do is hope that if I continue to go through the motions, at some point—if I just keep working—I will stop noticing how hard it all is.