The party went great. The American still hates my food because I put some seasoning on the blasted chicken. Just a very basic rub. Some oregano, some cumin. But no, that’s too exotic. The poor guest had to pick off the visible bits of seasoning manually. At least, the mashed potatoes seemed to be satisfactory.
The Latin American guests were stunned that N was the one to do the dishes and lay the table for dessert.
“I told you, she’s a feminist,” one explained in a whisper.
Klara discovered zucchini bread and loved it.
N said one whole sentence to an adult other than me at the party.
And I was in heaven because I had Latin Americans to talk to.