Last week Friday, Tom and I threw a small dinner party. We rarely do this anymore. We rarely do anything that makes us break into a sweat. I'm not kidding. Tom and I refuse to sweat.
So today is Thursday, and I just cleaned up the very last hints of that dinner party. I know it's shocking. Tom put in the first load of dishes and said, "I'll clean this up," but he didn't. He didn't really want to. I didn't want to. We didn't care about the semi-mess in the kitchen. Instead, we sat in front of that fire we're liking so much these days.
The next day, I put in another load of dishes.
I hand-washed the silver. I kept eating pickled olives from the dish I left out on top next to the radio.
Today I washed and folded the white napkins and put them back in the drawer. I looked at my kitchen: clean. Six days to clean up after a small dinner party.
That said, I loved having people over to our house. It's easier to hear each other than meeting at a restaurant, which is what we are more inclined to do. And then, too, good friends bless a house, and sustain us with good feelings in the days that pass. Even longer than it takes to clean up.