Once upon a time, it seemed, there were parties all the time at my little house. And then there was only thesis writing all the time. And then there was the e-mail from Maud sometime last week, titled “more parties for us,” in which she gently suggested, two or three times, that I do a thing at my place. Hence, this afternoon I popped on the Roxette greatest hits CD and got to work slicing three pounds of onions for a pissaladière. (I am now qualified to say: that thing about lighting a candle nearby to prevent the eyes watering and stinging?, it’s true.)

Maud came and—oh my god, Maud, truly we have come far, because—Maud came and stood around and talked while I cooked.

When Camille arrived, I got to opening the gifts she’d sent ahead with Maud—a jar of grandmother’s apricot jam, a totem pole of chocolate studded with nuts, and a white chocolate mouse. Ahem. A WHITE CHOCOLATE PRALINÉ MOUSE WITH A PINK ICING NOSE AND PISTACHIOS FOR EARS. We like Camille A LOT.

Jason brought Aaron and Duane from D.C., who were stylish and funny. “Your friends are stylish and funny,” I said later. “One is stylish and one is funny.” Somewhere, a drum beat: “da-dum.”

Jeff brought three knives—“the good silver”—because I’d invited more people than I had cutlery for. (It was just one of those dinner parties where you want to see this person and that person and that other person, and you don’t really know how many persons exactly are showing up till maybe sometime in the midafternoon, at which point you are very pleased, but you also scratch your head and do a search in the house for chairs.)

And Sarah came, and Kat, and Andrew, and Gabe. And the pissaladière—from a Googled recipe on a Côte d’Azur Web site (thank you, Master’s in French literature)—the pissaladière was tasty. And even though the ricotta-tomato tart was too brown on the top and not done enough on the bottom, and even though the chocolate-walnut crust on the lemon tart was denser than I’d wanted, altogether the blueberries were plump and sweet enough, and the wine free-flowing enough, and the company lovely enough that it didn’t really seem to matter.

This was the company:

Kat acted out a DeLorean.

Jason tried to show how French people clap at concerts. Maybe this summer we will go to Paris and go to a Johnny Hallyday concert and see French people clapping.

Andrew told about trying to find transportation in the wee hours of a Washington, D.C., morning. This is a story that included such highlights as (a) paying homeless people to find a cab, and (b) the phrase “Yo, yo, yo, Sherell.”

And here I’m sorry if this is no good to some of you, but, dammit, some things can’t be explained and I just need them here so when I reread this in some months I will be able to sit about and laugh till it hurts like we did tonight while the rain came down outside:

“She’s cool, but she’s not a deejay.”

“Touch me in the morning.”

“Que je suis con.”

“Well, I actually know a deejay, and he’s not that cool.”

“French rev.” “What?!” “French rev.” “What?!” “French rev. Look, it was Brecksville High School, Ohio.”

“A hundred and eighty percent? She means one hundred degrees.”

Everyone was excited about Maud’s and my road trip. “Who’s going to be Romy and who’s going to be Michelle?” “Who’s going to be Thelma and who’s going to be Louise?” “Who’s going to be Harry and who’s going to be Sally?” “Who’s going to be Michael J. Fox and who’s going to be Christopher Lloyd?” “Who’s going to be Chewbacca and who’s going to be R2D2?”

Kat’s road trip tips were: (a) Starburst candies will keep you awake and, if you try to unwrap them in your mouth, will let you practice kissing. (b) After a while it is nice to drive barefoot.

Jeff’s road trip tips were: Go to the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Arkansas.

People left and people stayed, and then it was just the good ol’ college crowd with a pot of tea and a honey tangerine. I cannot help it, there is a sense of the end in ’most everything I do these days. And I don’t mean to be maudlin about things, maybe I need to just hit the stop button on the Benjamin Biolay album, but there it is. There were no tears when Jeff and Kat left sometime around two-thirty, but I hugged them very tight before they walked out into the rain-shiny streets of the night.