Eliot Might Be Right After All

Last night was our first attempt to prove T. S. Eliot wrong: April is not the cruelest month, February is. We decided to use a party as our weapon against the grumpy old man and have since come to the conclusion that a party is not the best weapon to wield against poetry. The party, unlike The Wasteland, was fun in an easily grasped sort of way. February may no longer be the cruelest month. We shall have to have a party in April as well, I suppose, to guarantee that Eliot really isn't correct. A partyless month, say March, will become the cruelest one...



The final menu was smoked-oyster dip with crudités and water crackers, spinach dip in the obligatory pumpernickel-bread boule, baked brie, pâté, stuffed mushrooms (Thanks Moms!), these little individual squares of puff pastry with caramelized onions and blue cheese that K. made (and to which she has the honor of giving some horribly pretentious quasi-French name), and a couple of dozen of chocolate chip cookies that one of our guests brought.

The only thing left after the party was some spinach dip and most of the boule because our guests didn't realize until fairly late in the game that you're supposed to eat the dip's container and only two of our guests admitted to eating supper early in order to gorge themselves chez nous. I like my reputation as a conscientious colleague, but I think that I could live without it. I would, however, be crushed if my friends and colleagues thought that I were a poor host. Proof of this: I have done no marking this weekend and there are thirty-odd undergrad take-home tests begging for a mark from me. They shall have to wait until tomorrow, I think. It's supposed to rain, which means that I'll need to stay home and babysit the drain. -Zh.