I recently came into some wine, two cases of it, actually, so—with no little amount of gentle nudging from Tom (“You can’t drink all that on your own!” “When are you having us over?” “I’m there, I’m already there!”)—I threw a little Saturday night wine drinking party. Wine drinking parties are easy (especially if you already have two cases of wine just hanging out in your pantry), ’cause it just means a little morning walk to the fantastical Blue Apron Food on Union, where they are always so, so happy to sell you cheese. Fifty-three dollars of cheese. Um, anyway. . . .The easiest party menu in the world also included a salad of arugula, walnuts and goat cheese, with walnut oil; a salad of various mixed greens, herbs, tomatoes, and artichoke hearts, with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and Chinese vinegar; alternating slices of tomatoes and mozzarella sprinkled with chopped basil; and really, really tasty roasted potatoes (thank you, Donna Hay), which I accessorized with roasted garlics and dill. And ground black pepper and sea salt on every bloody thing. Oh, and then sweet black grapes, and strawberries, and crème fraîche, and a lemon mousse tart. I think that was it. Oh, wait, also some dark chocolate and orange-infused white chocolate. OK, that was it. Truly. And it was so much fun, and there was Jason, and Maud, and Philippe, and Tom, and Mateo, and India. And there was a lot of laughing, and a lot of bitching and swearing, and talking about French departments and S Club 7 and Philippe’s fake girlfriend and blogs and the Andrew McCarthy–Kim Cattrall movie called “Mannequin” and knitting and Mateo’s ear situation and Friendster and horoscopes. And we played The Shins and The Strokes and Dusty Springfield and Franz Ferdinand and my compliation of hula music and The Cure and Jet and Macy Gray and The Dandy Warhols.

At one point my mum phoned to ask if we were drunk yet. So I said no, and then she proceeded to tell me about all the different Singapore Arts Festival shows she was going to see, and then I said, Okay, now I’m going to talk to my friends, and she said, Okay, I just wanted to see if you were drunk, byeeee.

At another point we were lucky enough that the question we had to answer was “Does anyone want coffee or champagne?”

At yet another point we stepped outside for a smoke break and this guy in a black p.o.d. jacket walked past my front door at a quick clip, followed a few paces behind by a girl with big hair, and she was saying something about something, and he said, “I don’t care about your Park Slope bullshit.”

At the point that was three a.m. we realized that because this was the weekend of moving the clocks, it was really four a.m. That was the only crappy part, but then we kept on keeping on, and that was good.