Well, it has been a couple of days and I am grateful for your patience. We have nearly finished Josh's move and we can almost see one another through the boxes. Hello, over there! Did the Raynaud make it in one piece? How about the stemware? Any blushing hostess worth her flatware pattern enters a heightened level of entertaining alert when stems or platters are threatened. Or, will break into hives as I did when her gaze falls upon a heap of silver blackened after a year in storage. Did it make me wonder if it was worth it? No. But the seemingly endless sets of dishes and the more difficult to store items like delicate coffee and consomme cups are enough to make me retreat to a butlers pantry and break down in tears on the altar of good tablesetting. Heavens! How do you throw these marvelous dinners and then up and move so often and smoothly as the wife of a naval officer? I have to bow here to those who have done this several more times than I with not a chip on their china. There is an art to this I have yet to understand. But, I will not give up though Josh would like me to. He would like yours truly, the Blushing Hostess, to fall upon her drink sword and admit (I scoff) there is no need for a depression glass service for twenty! Oh, how he baits me. I will let you know how those twenty lovely types enjoyed dinner!
Now, on to what really matters. I warned you in firing my first shot of this enterprise that at some points I would have to discuss, really rather seriously, the pressing issues of manners.
The first has arrived rather unavoidably: Gentlemen, when a woman or girl, rises from a table, or approaches a table, kindly pick the napkin up from your lap and stand until she has moved away from the table or taken her seat. Not because I asked you to, mind you, but because it is a thoughtful gesture, like holding a door. I was recently reminded how much I missed these now old world courtesy's, but when I see them again, they are so very wonderful and charming, and I think even, a bit cunning.
I can see them all so clearly, the gentlemen of my youth, the sun-tanned bridge of morning golf across their cheeks and noses, their navy jackets and pressed khaki's. The magic of the Bedford Club's lemon chicken still crosses the palate of my memory and is tied up with this thought, since every one of my memories is attached at a taste or scent. Lois, I hope your Dad and Brother are well.
And before I leave you, I should note for you that occasionally, you will see issues with formats and layouts, and in the case of this post, Blogger is unable to generate spaces between paragraphs. I can imagine this would frustrate the reader as much as it does myself but stick with me, it happens rarely.
Sleep well, friends.