Tonight, lovelies, I am attending a book party. And like holiday cocktails or a Christmas tree-trimming, author celebrations are a minefield for bad nutrition.
Obvi, the cocktails and the trayed canapes are guilty. But even the ones I attend where there is a lack of food to soak up the alcohol is bad for my health.
I hadn't been to many of this breed until I started dating my husband.
Why does the my city's literati elite pride themselves on hosting parties with Champagne galore but few bites? My dear chocks it up to fashion. He grew accustomed to this manner overseas. The more well-to-do you are, the more likely you host a modest (even tightwad-like) party so not to give off airs, so it goes.
I learned this first hand one eve at the shiny, bright apartment of an acquaintance. It was organized to celebrate a guest-of-honor, here from Wales, and his new appointment. The soiree included waiters with white gloves and beaucoup de Bubbly. There were 80-plus chatterboxes who either wrote, edited, agented, or granted money on hand. But when I gestured to the one lone bowl of nuts in the room, my husband looked on the bright side (as is his nature): "At least it's not Twiglets. They are foul." Apparently, he's attended one too many parties when he lived abroad where only those Marmite novelties were served.
So for the brighter side for my plan tonight, I aim to eat before I go: If I nosh on protein before the event, I'll avoid unconscious nibbling. So, should the fare be ever more substantial than umami-enhanced twigs, it won't matter to me.