The Annual Ladies-Only Summer Solstice Dinner Party: Part One

I didn't RSVP for the party at A Fanciful Twist a few weeks ago, so I've decided to start some posts about a party that has become a tradition among my friends and I . . . the Solstice Dinner.

[please note: I haven't exactly "cleared" the publication of this story with my friends, so for the time being, I am abbreviating or assigning pseudonyms. I know it's slightly annoying, but this is very much a work-in-progress, so I'm still playing with it and respecting my friends while doing it]

In the middle of June 1989, my friends and I decided to mark the converging occasions of our graduation from high school, our frustrations with our boyfriends (or lack of) and the summer solstice with a party. We thought at the time that most of us would never see each other again once we went off to college (which didn't end up being true -- most of us ended up at UMASS for at least a year or two). What we thought of as a farewell party turned into a tradition that instead signaled the beginning of some close friendships that have lasted for nineteen years and the welcoming of new friendships that have been sustained in part by the Annual Ladies-Only Summer Solstice Dinner.

That first celebration began a tradition of fanciful dress and old-fashioned play. Everyone dressed up -- and not just in a nice pair of pants and high heels, but in vintage clothes borrowed from mothers and grandmothers, pretty sundresses, and proverbial black dresses, accompanied by fans, long strings of beads, and cigarette holders from the 20s. J and Heva's grandma had been young and fun during the time of the speakeasies, so she had all kinds of stories, recipes, clothes and trinkets to share with her girls. One year, J wore a jaw-dropping dressing gown covered in a colorful splash of flowers cascading all the way to the floor. I remember showing up at J's house on that first night feeling so privileged just to have been invited. After all, I had only really made friends with these girls about a year previous.

When I arrived, there were silver candles on the table, a china place setting at a tiny table where we would bump elbows to share our repas, and cloth napkins.

And the night was sultry.

In attendance, as far as I can recall, were J, Heva, Cytherea, Perky, Kay, L and myself. J hosted, and Heva, her cousin visiting from Florida, co-hosted with her by doing most of the cooking. They served individual Cornish game hens with an orange glaze, a bottle of red wine that J's mom had left for the occasion, and for dessert -- I believe it was Cytherea who suggested it -- chocolate fondue. The fondue has become one of the most consistent and anticipated elements of the whole affair. There have been years when everyone was mad at someone for something, but a core group of us kept up the tradition, perhaps only for the sweet promise of chocolate.

I remember this as my first time having fondue, and I can only describe it as an orgasm in my mouth. To me, the dessert combined many of my favorite flavors: chocolate, raspberry, strawberry, cherry, banana, French bread. Although many fruits are often presented each year (pear and orange are exceptional favorites with some us), I mainly stick with these few mentioned above. Don't mess with perfect, I say.

Here's an easy, no-fail recipe for chocolate fondue:
All you need is:
* 16 oz. semi-sweet chocolate, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, or white chocolate pieces -- the best quality you can afford
* 1 small can evaporated milk

Slowly melt chocolate a handful of pieces at a time in double-boiler or heavy pan on very low heat. Stir constantly. I forgo the double-boiler these days and just pay close attention to temperature. You can take the pan off the heat occasionally to regulate heat. Some people prefer to melt chocolate in the microwave, which also works well. When the chocolate is mostly melted but not quite, slowly add evaporated milk a few tablespoons at a time, stirring constantly. Continue to add the milk until the desired consistency and taste is achieved. Pour into a heat-proof bowl and serve with assorted fruit, bread, pretzels, marshmallows or whatever you like. This amount of fondue will easily serve a dinner party of well-dined ladies. We always have a lot left over. In fact, I think the semi-congealed, refrigerated fondue eaten off the spoon is a supremely decadent joy. I've been guilty of making a special trip to the evening's hostess's house the next day to eat leftover fondue. I'm not proud, but it's the truth.

Over the years, different ladies have been in charge of fondue. For a long time, it was Cytherea's domain, and I believe she used a recipe that called for unsweetened chocolate, powdered sugar and cream. I've seen similar recipes that call for an optional splash of orange liqueur. K has been in charge of fondue for a few solstices now, and she's partial to dark chocolate. I took my version (above) to a casual get-together last year, using white chocolate, and it was a stunning success. Basically, if you melt chocolate and put yummy things in it, people will like it -- and will likely praise you for it.

I mentioned K, and observant readers will notice that she wasn't in the original 1989 cast. That's because we didn't know her until we went to college. Even though there is a core group, different ladies have attended each year. I've already alluded to the occasional hostilities --suspended only for the sake of holy hot chocolate and fruit -- that marred the fun from time to time . One high school friend, Kay (not K), fell out of favor with nearly everyone by the end of that first summer. Another girl's life became so complicated that she was either working double shifts at McDonald's [shudders] or taking care of her sick, elderly mother. We've lost touch with her over the years. When Perky slept with J's boyfriend, she was spared reproach initially because she felt so bad about it -- until she did it again, this time with J's painful, long-time crush, D. After a while, J and P patched it up, but they've never been quite the same. Perky has never come to another solstice. I'm not even sure any of us have her most recent contact information. It's too bad because she and J had been the closest of friends in high school.

Meanwhile, Heva was a fairly consistent participant up until a few years ago when she moved to Australia. Sometimes, she phones or Skypes. One year, she surprised us all and spent a good part of the summer here. She brought with her her wild energy, Missy Elliot and Midori Illusions (a drink). Anyway, that was the year the party was held at J's new place in Nbpt. where she'd moved after her divorce. I was kind of going through a "thing" at the time -- I'd lost a lot of weight, had just ended, amicably, a really satisfying but casual relationship, and was rather frisky about potential prospects. I believe it was the same year I met S and the same night we watched pay-per-view porn. As you can imagine, it got a little wild.

At a party full of rambunctious, modern young women, one can expect to hear a lot of sex talk. This is probably because, from the beginning, we insisted upon the absence of men at the parties. Not that the men haven't tried to crash or guilt-trip us into inviting them. I think once the tradition was underway, and we all spent so much energy planning each party and time gushing about what fun we had had at the last one, the men in our lives became extremely jealous. At some point, I started an all-gender winter solstice party with some success, though it is less consistently annual. It's also fun and the guys look forward to it -- we all do. But, it's not the same and the dudes know it. Which only serves to increase their annoyance and jealousy as we continue to jealously guard our only time to really cackle and gossip about them.

Next installment: "A Patch of Sweet Woodruff: Lonely Friendships and the May Wine"