It was supposed to be a civilized dinner party.
That was mistake number one.
There were six of us, a table full of food, three dogs strategically positioned beneath the chairs, and one cat pretending she was far too sophisticated to participate in anything so common as begging. She sat on the windowsill with her back to us, occasionally glancing over her shoulder with the expression of a Victorian widow disappointed by her descendants.
Everything started beautifully. Candles were lit. Dinner was served. Someone had brought dessert. I had even used the good napkins, which in hindsight was ridiculously optimistic.
For approximately twenty-three minutes, we behaved like adults.
Then someone flicked a pea.
Nobody knows who.
There are accusations, obviously. There always are after an international incident. Karen maintains that the pea simply “rolled off her fork.”
Ma’am.
Peas do not achieve horizontal flight without assistance.
The pea struck Dave directly in the forehead.
Dave stared at it.
We stared at Dave.
The pea rolled slowly down his nose and landed on his plate.
There was a moment of silence.
Dave picked up a tiny piece of mashed potato with his fork.
“No,” I said.
Dave smiled.
“Dave.”
He launched it.
And civilization collapsed.
Within seconds, mashed potatoes were airborne.
Someone weaponized a dinner roll.
A carrot flew past my head with enough velocity that I briefly wondered whether my home insurance covered vegetable-related structural damage.
I ducked behind my chair.
“WHO THREW THE BROCCOLI?”
Nobody answered.
Another piece of broccoli sailed past.
Apparently, we had a sniper.
Meanwhile, the dogs realized that the heavens had opened.
They had spent the entire evening politely waiting beneath the table for someone to accidentally drop a crumb.
Suddenly?
Buffet.
One dog was sprinting around like a Roomba powered by desperation.
Another stationed himself beneath the mashed-potato combat zone and simply opened his mouth.
The third had abandoned all dignity and was following the dinner rolls.
Throw.
CHASE.
Eat.
Return.
Honestly, he had developed an extremely efficient business model.
The cat remained on the windowsill.
Judging us.
Then a piece of chicken landed on the floor.
Her entire personality changed.
She launched herself from the windowsill like a furry missile, grabbed the chicken, and disappeared under the couch.
So much for Victorian dignity.
Things escalated.
Someone threw a spoonful of peas.
Someone else retaliated with stuffing.
I watched a dinner roll bounce off the wall, hit the table, ricochet off a chair and disappear directly into a dog’s mouth.
He hadn’t even moved.
He just sat there chewing, looking stunned by his own good fortune.
“THIS IS WHY I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES,” someone yelled.
I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Then I felt something hit my shoulder.
Mashed potatoes.
I slowly turned around.
My friend froze.
We made eye contact.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Oh yes.
I grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes.
She ran.
The dogs followed because apparently we were now taking the buffet mobile.
We tore through the kitchen like two middle-aged women who had completely forgotten about mortgages, taxes and lower-back pain.
I threw.
She ducked.
The potatoes sailed over her shoulder.
And landed directly on the cat.
Everything stopped.
The cat stood frozen.
A small blob of mashed potato rested between her ears.
She looked at me.
I’ve never been threatened so effectively without words.
“I’m so sorry.”
She slowly licked one paw.
I swear she was taking down my license plate number.
Eventually, the food supply dwindled, mostly because the animals had eaten the ammunition.
We stood in the kitchen surveying the destruction.
Mashed potatoes on the cupboards.
Peas under the table.
Stuffing on the floor.
A mysterious smear of gravy on the wall that nobody would claim responsibility for.
Three dogs lying on the floor with enormous bellies, looking like they’d just attended the greatest event in canine history.
And the cat sitting on the counter licking mashed potatoes from her shoulder while plotting our deaths.
Someone finally said, “Well… dessert?”
We looked at the cake.
Then at each other.
“No.”
Absolutely not.
We ate it with our hands standing over the kitchen sink like raccoons.
Because once you’ve thrown mashed potatoes at your friends and watched your dog intercept a dinner roll in midair, there’s really no point pretending you’re classy anymore.
The next morning, I found a pea behind the couch.
The dogs found three more.
And the cat?
She spent the entire day sitting beside the dining-room table.
Waiting.
Because apparently she now believes dinner parties are supposed to rain chicken.
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