At Ginny's for dinner

Ginny Evans, my sister that is, and her husband Mark just moved into a new house. It is darling, with old hardwood floors and vintage crown molding that pulls the eye up to a charmingly uneven ceiling. The large wooden rimmed windows and brick covered porch are delightfully reminiscent of a former era, while the contrasting front-load washer/dryer with bright blue lights that beep and jet-black refrigerator (that also beeps with bright blue lights) add a modern comfort of their own. Josh and I visited last night for dinner, and having bypassed the whole moving ordeal due to the fact that the Evans' had so many offers to help as well as no need for a one-and-a-half year old to terrorize progress, we offered to bring dinner.

I was expecting a hearty, "Yes, pleeease," to follow this offer. After all, Ginny and Mark are currently living amidst large, bulky, unpacked boxes and are without running water (it couldn't be turned on on a Sunday). Their spices are not to be found, their water glasses are still being pulled out of boxes that were haphazardly labeled "clothing", and every last penny was just spent on a trip to IKEA to furnish their very first house. A paid for dinner on paper seemed like a good idea. Silly me.

Cooking, for Ginny, is like therapy. When most women turn to chocolate, a good sitcom, a glass of wine, or exercise Ginny fires up the oven. So while we were placing glasses on shelves and trying to wade through packing tape and cardboard, Ginny was cooking for us. Jonathan ran willy nilly through the new house (or should I say, glorious new playground) and Ginny pulled marinated chicken out of her brand new freezer to toss on the George Foreman. The chicken filled the room with a spicy, yet sweet and delicious aroma, sweet potatoes baked in the toaster, spinach salad was tossed in a bowl, and the table was set to entertain.

You read right: I asked her if she wanted me to set the table with paper towels, but oh no. She somehow remembered that her table linens were in the bottom drawer of a small bookshelf in another room of the house. Not to disappoint her, I cleaned off the tablecloth, swept the floor of wayward paint chips, and set the table with Williams and Sonoma linens. She even had matching yellow daisies in a vase for the centerpiece. Soon we were sitting around a beautifully bedecked table, not a disposable plate or fork in sight, with grilled chicken, succulent sweet potatoes topped with brown sugar, and a colorful spinach salad. And wine.

I've got to hand it to the woman-- when I move into my next house you're all welcome, but it'll be Papa John's or bust. With paper towels.