We three queens

In many ways I am an extremely fortunate woman.  We are not wealthy, but we have enough money to live and enjoy a few occasional extras.  We have a roof over our heads, though it leaks right now and we are getting quotes to have it repaired or replaced.  We have clothes to wear -- warm in the winter, cooler in the summer.  They may not be the latest fashion, but they are clean and reasonably free of holes (our dog, Abby, likes to tear holes in our clothing with her sharp little toenails).  We have food every day and it is usually something we enjoy rather than something we eat out of necessity.  We have reliable transportation, and we know someone who will repair it when it becomes unreliable.  As a matter of fact, there are only two of us in this household and we currently have three vehicles.  That wouldn't seem so bad except I can no longer drive.  We need to put some serious thought into getting rid of at least one of  the extras.  So I count my blessings and try not to dwell on the things that make life hard.

One of our most fantastic blessings is we are fortunate to have some of the greatest friends you could ever want.  Bud is much more outgoing than I am.  Everyone loves Bud, unless you're one of those fools who got on his bad side, in which case you sincerely wish you had not ever met him.  But, generally Bud is open and friendly and would give you his last dime if you needed it.  Several of the mothers of our friends have adopted Bud as a surrogate son because he is just such a good person.  (Please note, none have suggested they would like to have me as a daughter.  I wonder why that is?)

Among our friends, there are two couples with whom we have become so close we are like family.  We have known these friends for more than 25 years, and we have had numerous adventures together (some of which I dare not ever put in my writings).  These friends I shall call Tim and Ann Webb and Harold and Rita Henderson (because that's what their names are).  The six of us get together regularly and there is always food and drink involved; usually an overabundance of both.  What is unusual about these gatherings is that neither Ann nor Rita nor I cook.  Oh, I can cook, and I imagine if push came to shove so could Ann and Rita.  Ann and Rita both raised children, so someone must have fed those little darlings.  I cook fairly well, but I don't enjoy cooking and have always considered it a bit of a chore.  When I lived alone I could see no reason to cook and mess up the kitchen for just me.  In the beginning of my relationship with Bud there was no need to cook because we went on dates that usually included dinner out.  After we settled down and became a real couple, it turned out he enjoyed cooking a whole lot more than I, so I just let him do his thing.  I'm not sure how the cooking chores evolved in the Webb and Henderson households, but I assume it was pretty much the same process of elimination.

So, whenever we get together for a Saturday dinner the scenario is nearly always the same.  Dinner will probably be at 8:00 pm, but we head out no later than 1:00 pm.  Bud packs up his knives, his wine glass (special Waterford crystal wine glasses for members of the "Boys Wine Club" only), whatever special pot or pan he may need, various and sundry grocery items, and usually a bottle or two of wine.  Bud and Tim both have wine cellars and red wine is a staple in our diet.  We usually go to the Webb home as it has newer and better appliances and is more spacious.  Harold brings his wine glass (snobs!!!) and stops by the supermarket or the farmers' market to pick up whatever fresh fruit and berries may be available and looking luscious.  Harold is the dessert king.  His desserts almost always involve fresh berries and fruit in some type of flaky pastry with a "to die for" sauce.

We seldom know in advance what the main course will be.  This is a topic for discussion once we are all present and accounted for.  The daiquiris are made (from fresh fruit, of course) and drunk while pondering the main dish options. The women are never consulted unless there is a possibility the men are planning something that one of us may not like (although I can't imagine what food would fit in that category).  Actually, the decision is never made while still in the Webb home; only possible options are tossed around.  The decision requires the ceremonial trip to the food store.  This trip also does not involve any women.  Generally the shopping is done at the local Harris Teeter.  I believe as soon as Tim and/or Bud and/or Harold enter the front door at Harris Teeter an alarm goes off in the meat/seafood department to alert the salesclerk that he is about to make his biggest and best sale of the day.  I am sure the people at Harris Teeter see those guys coming and break into smiles and cheers.  A selection is made and the hunter-gatherers (usually you are either one or the other, but since the women don't do anything productive, the men take care of it all) return to the lair.  More daiquiris are blended and consumed.

Then the menfolk switch to shots of 17 year old single malt scotch (we women respectfully abstain, but will continue drinking daiquiris as long as they are available).  Once the men have started on the scotch, it is time for meal preparation to begin.  Bud is generally in charge of the meat or main dish portion of the meal.  Tim is the sous chef in most cases and usually prepares all the vegetables.  Harold, as mentioned previously, is in charge of dessert.  This is the normal lineup, but on any given day or at any given time it would not be odd to see Tim cooking the main course and Bud or Harold preparing salads.  These guys get along so well  in the kitchen it all appears to have been choreographed.  They never disagree about whose job it is or how the preparation should be done.  They never even run into each other with three of them wandering about the kitchen at the same time.  (In our home, if Bud is in the kitchen when I go to get a Pepsi from the refrigerator we will collide.)  The table is set, the candles lit, the wine poured (the women get plain old ordinary wine glasses), and a scrumptious meal served, all by the men in our lives.   There is, of course, always a toast, during which the clinking of the wine glasses is noticeably more dulcet among the men.

So, you might ask, where are the women in this story?  We three queens are seated upon our thrones (okay, sofas and chairs)  in the "parlor" where we are occupied with the things that consume spoiled precious grownup princesses.  We are drinking our daiquiris, we are munching on cheese and crackers provided by our loving husbands to forestall hunger pangs, we are reading (all of us are serious readers and often swap books amongst the group), we are discussing the frailties of our aging bodies (we are all in the autumn of our lives), we are discussing the lives of Ann's son and/or Rita's daughters, or we are napping.  Ann, Rita and I are capable of napping anywhere, at any time, and under almost any circumstances.  We do not move from our thrones until it is time to be seated for the meal, at which time we mosey to the dining area and plop down in our assigned seats.  The meal is served, wine replenished as necessary, table cleared and kitchen cleaned by our marvelous, irreplaceable spouses.

There is but one thing I neglected to mention.  Any one of us women might actually assist with any part of the previously mentioned production, except none of the men will grant us a kitchen pass.  I love my life.