We made chicken cacciatore that night and I set out little bowls of olives and tortilla chips and salsa before they got there, and Michael admonished me the way he always did: “Now, just take it easy, okay? Don’t get too drunk.” And, of course, I didn’t pay any attention and I got way too drunk. I didn’t mean to; I never meant to. But I’d be feeling edgy before the guests arrived, so I’d have a beer or two while we cooked, and then they’d get there and I’d get a little more anxious—was everything okay? were we timing the food correctly? was anybody bored yet?—and so I’d open the first bottle
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