Party!

from Friday 25 Sept 2015:



Popcorn with truffle salt for starters.  Note clean coffee table - no sand on top.

I feel more familiar to myself at 22:10 tonight, as I sit to type this.  I have just hosted a small dinner party, my first in Namibia, my first since maybe March 2014, unless you count family parties which I do only about 50%.  However you count, it is an awfully long time for me to go without throwing a party.



Pork.  I had to freeze it, since I bought on Saturday for dinner on Friday.

The occasion was not entirely happy.  I wanted to celebrate the fine accomplishments of my work counterpart, Etta, who was retrenched (laid off, made redundant, reduced in force) after ten years with the foundation.  She got a lot done in her years there, but was sorry to be leaving.  Her clients were sorry to lose her, too.

Apples and onions are a rare side dish here, though the ingredients
are very available.

I surveyed our two immediate colleagues, and Friday two weeks hence was good for everyone.  In deference to the soapie (nighttime TV soap opera) addiction of one, we would convene at 7:00pm.  Then the other got called out of town, so I invited my namesake from the garden project here in town, who is a long-time client of Etta’s.  Yay!  I really like her and four for dinner is a very manageable number for my home and settling-in allowance.  (I own four plates, four forks, etc.)

Lettuce and spinach grown at one guest's garden project.  And delicious!

I made my way to Swakopmund the weekend before to buy MEAT.  The day before the party I cleaned like crazy, willing the strong east wind not to blow ferociously Thursday night.  That wind shoves sand through every crack and cranny the house offers, including the nailed-shut bathroom window.  The bathtub gets a lovely layer of grit then, and I exfoliate responsibly.  Or something.  I sent out regular reminders to my guests, as plans tend to be flexible for a lot of people here.  (I had a rule in the US that when I had plans with one specific couple, I did not answer the phone on the day of the event, knowing it would be them, calling to cancel.  No, it wasn’t you.  You are always a lovely guest; a lovely host.)

Mac-n-cheese because I didn't get enough of it at Culture Day in training.

I cleared the kitchen table for a sideboard, cooked up a small feast, and welcomed my guests more or less on time.  Except one, who forgot all about it despite that morning’s reminder, watched her soapie and then went with a cousin to the clinic for the evening.  We had a grand time regardless, toasting Etta’s past accomplishments and happy future, and discussing our dreams and ambitions.

Cape Cod oatmeal-raisin cookies for dessert.  I don't have a cooling rack,
but a cardboard egg box worked just fine.

They offered to wash everything up, and I agreed, packing away the leftovers to send home with them.  They were so kind, and so generous in their praise of the house and the meal and the hospitality, that I stayed all aglow for the full weekend.  I love to have parties.

Guests at ease.

Guests at work.

Thanksgiving was like a party, too, though extremely collaborative and long.  More on that later.