Sometimes I write entries and then I publish them as private, and I forget about them. This was one of them: I wrote it on 29 August 2011, inspired by a certain sort of lifestyle, memories and well, pork roast.
Orange bulbs lit the room as the guests milled around, tinkering wine glasses and laughing over silly games. There were people in the living room, the dining room and out at the balcony taking in the cool air, but the hosts were nowhere to be seen.
Ah, there she is. She left the kitchen with a smile that played on her lips, cheeks flushed with alcohol and anxiety. She made a stop at the dining room, asking what game was being played and who was getting drunk. Then she made her way to the living room where she had a small chat about whose boyfriend was being mean and who was breaking up with who. Finally, she sauntered out to the balcony where people were just being quiet and spacing out – she quickly left after a quick hi.
Finishing her rounds, she went into the kitchen again. He hasn’t been out at all. Hunched over the oven with a pair of tongs in his hand, his forehead was dotted with sweat and his brows knitted in a frown.
“They’re ready,” he announced. She smiled as he opened the oven door – smoke escaped and the aroma was almost overwhelming. Smoky, robust and full of flavour. Pork roast. As he plated it and served, the guests milled around the dining table and gasped in awe. Paper plates passed around and hands shot out greedily.
In the months, and years to come, there was one thing from that party that stood in the guests’ minds. It wasn’t a fantastically fun party, nor was it grand or outstanding in any way. It was probably the most ordinary 21st birthday party ever. But the pork roast, oh – conversations always go back to that pork roast, and how people kept going back to the dining table for more.