I often think about the five people I’d invite to a fantasy dinner party. They are: Jesus Christ, Rick Springfield, my late grandmother, my ex-boyfriend Steve, and a celebrity chef.
It wouldn’t matter which celebrity chef would attend, because he would not be there for dinner conversation; rather, he would be making and serving the food because when you host a heavy-hitter dinner party like this one, you can’t afford to burn the chili. The celebrity chef would definitely not be Rachel Ray because she’s too hot, and I don’t need Rick and Steve to be distracted from noticing what a fascinating hostess and conversationalist I’d be. I’d pick the Naked Chef, but his name might offend my grandmother and also Jesus, if Jesus turns out to be more like red-state Jesus than blue-state Jesus, so I’d stick with Emeril.
I assume I’d have marital rights to invite my husband too, because first, we share a home and wouldn’t that be awkward, and second, maybe if my husband saw that Rick Springfield found attractive once he got to know me, he’d be a bit more appreciative of me. Maybe after that dinner he’d even be a little in awe each evening when the steam from the dishwasher revealed me standing there, in all of my suburban glory, adored by Rick Springfield, Jesus Christ, my grandmother, and a loser named Steve–and yet still there I would be, living in his house, married to him.
Dinner party seating would be a challenge. My left side is my best profile side, and if Rick Springfield is coming to my house, he’s going to be seated on my left. It seems simple, except that there’s also Steve, who broke up with me for reasons unexplained, which is part of the reason he’d be attending the dinner party, as he’d be required to explain himself in front of Jesus Christ. Steve could sit next to Rick, so that he’d still be on my left side, but one seat away, which is fine because I don’t have much to talk about with him anyway.
I’d seat Steve face-to-face with Jesus or maybe next to my grandmother, because my grandmother could talk with anyone, even someone who once asked me, as I was singing joyfully along to Madonna on the radio, if I knew that I sang off-key.
Jesus could really sit anywhere because he sees people from the inside and has a lot of good anecdotes to keep a conversation going–but I’d definitely engineer it so that he’d sit next to my grandmother because she was a church-going woman and Jesus would be like her Rick Springfield. My husband could sit across from Steve, too, so that Steve would have to face, literally, what a smart, good-looking, and gainfully employed man I married. But I’m not going to brag in front of Jesus. All of that information would just come out naturally in conversation.
At first people might be awkward with each other, so Emeril could warm people up with some fantastic h’ors d’oeuvres. He’d be jolly and charismatic about presenting them to everyone and then someone, probably Steve, would try to break the ice and ask Jesus why the word “h’ors d’oeuvres” has an “h” in it anyway. Everyone would be a little embarrassed for Steve because it’s not like Jesus is Google. But Jesus, God love him, would understand that Steve was just trying to make conversation and was maybe feeling a little insecure (like someone else maybe once felt) and Jesus would tell him why there was the “h” in kind of a funny-story way to put Steve at ease, and everyone would laugh and drink more red wine.
My grandmother would ooh and ahh over the h’ors d’oeuvres. She would probably ask Emeril for the recipe and Emeril would tell her where she could find it online and of course I’d tell my grandmother that I’d help her with that, since she didn’t know about the Internet. Then I’d turn to Steve and ask him if he’d like help finding it on the Internet, because he may not have heard of it either, and everyone would think about how kind I was.
My grandmother would ask Rick Springfield what he did for a living, and Rick would say that he was a rock-and-roll singer. Oh, she would say, and she’d definitely ask him to sing one of his melodies, but Rick would be a little shy about that and he’d probably try to change the subject by engaging Jesus in conversation about the meaning of life. This is where the dinner party would get really deep.
For a while, all of us would spend time listening to Jesus talk about the things that are really important in life, and how we are put on this earth to act with kindness and to love one another even if someone really pisses you off by choosing to love some Jessie’s girl instead of you, or by telling you that you’re singing off-key and then later breaking up with you, or by forgetting to thank you for unloading the dishwasher because it’s actually his turn.
Then Emeril, who had come out of the kitchen for this part because who wants to be stuck chopping celery when Jesus is in the next room enlightening everyone, would suddenly jump up and say The pork roast is ready! That would break up the heavy part of dinner, and soon the food would be on the table and everyone would be busy serving themselves. My grandmother, though, would have remembered right away that Jesus is Jewish and therefore may not be comfortable eating pork, so she would sneak into the kitchen and tell Emeril.
By this time, everyone except my grandmother would have had a few glasses of wine and would be feeling pretty happy to be at such an incredible dinner party. My grandmother would have convinced Rick Springfield to sing, and since Rick didn’t bring his guitar to dinner, after Jesus finished his Lucky Charms, Jesus would have transubstantiated part of our wooden stairway banister into a guitar when no one was looking, and we’d all start singing along.
When we would all look back upon that dinner, we’d recognize that as the moment when the party had naturally ended, even though we all tried to keep it going longer. Rick would sing a few more songs, and he and I would even sing a beautiful duet together, but my grandmother would be getting tired and Jesus would have heard about a natural disaster somewhere and would start making preparations to leave.
Steve would be the first to leave, but before leaving, he would take me aside and remark what perfect pitch I had, and how sorry he was to have broken my heart, and how he kicks himself for it every day and how tonight was no exception. I’d smile and shake my head in a perplexed way and say, Break my heart? What? I do remember that we dated, but it wasn’t that serious for me, Steve! Then my husband would come over and ask whether I wanted him to move the Lexus back into the driveway, and I would ask, Oh, did you mean your Lexus or mine? and Steve would use this as his moment to give a final wave before backing his electric scooter out of our driveway.
Emeril would have slipped out of the party early because professionally it would be difficult for him to accept the fact that he served Lucky Charms and pork to Jesus Christ. My husband would help my grandmother with her coat, and Jesus would insist upon giving her a lift back to heaven.
My husband and I would stand at the door, waving at everyone as they left, and then we’d turn to each other and, our hearts having been softened by the presence of so much love, argue over who would get the privilege of doing the dishes. I’d let him win, of course, because that is just the kind of person I am.
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