Yesterday I invited a bunch of my closest friends, and a bunch of people I want to get to know better, to have dinner at my house. Everybody was to bring a craft and something to feed people. It went extremely well and I am thoroughly pleased, and one of my friends’ crafts of choice is craft cocktails, so I am also a tiny bit hungover. I’m doing a latte to it. (This is going to be a short post; I’m on my weekly writing date, and I’m going to go write something that requires a great deal less focus when I’m done with this.)

Anyway, for a pretty big chunk of yesterday, all was right with the world. My house smelled like delicious food that I and other people had made; there were no fewer than three kinds of baked good, and a variety of savory snacks and dips; libations were provided by most comers and by the cocktail-making friend (do you know about the Manhattan? I have learned, and it is good); and everywhere loads of the people I like best were speaking to each other, laughing or teaching each other things or just talking about whatever they were working on.

This morning, my mom (who is my best friend) said that she was proud of me. “Why?” I said.

“You took a chance,” she said, “and look what happened.”

She’s right; I, generally horrified by the thought of having lots of people in my personal space, invited about thirty of them to come over and eat food I made all by myself and hang out for a relatively unrestricted amount of time. And in exchange, my home was filled with delight that I will be able to carry with me for weeks – maybe all the way to the next crafty dinner party night, which will surely happen. What an easy trade-off. What a gift. Thanks, my friends.