It was the night of the Christmas party at my wife’s best friend’s apartment, and we spent the entire afternoon cooking and preparing side dishes to contribute.
I slow-smoked a brisket, and in the mean time made homemade pretzels, while my wife made her killer cheese dip and crockpot BBQ smokies. (We knew her friends would all bring something, but we also knew they would all just grab a bag of chips or a 2-liter and call it good.)
Since we are the only couple in the friend group who owns a home, we usually host the annual Christmas party, but this year my wife’s friend Aly asked if she could host it at her place.
When I was younger, I always imagined my future winters filled with grand holiday parties, decorated lawns, and an important job that brought important people to those parties. I imagined drinking wine and flirting with wives while my large house was crammed so full of people that nobody would notice (or care).
That isn’t how it turned out.
My best friends live hours away from us, and it’s my wife’s friends we always hang out with when we do decide to have people over.