The Durden Effect

I open my eyes in a familiar place. But the furniture has been moved around. The light of a new day creeps in through the living room window. The clock on the cable box says 8:11. Why am I still in my cooking shirt? How come I never changed? Why did it seem as if the night ended so early? Then I get that feeling deep in my gut as I stand, that queasiness that will soon morph itself into a man called Earl. This is not good. This is not good at all.

The last thing I remember I was basking in the glory of having cooked dinner for 25 in just over five hours. Curried fish tacos, Sesame Chicken on skewers, grilled red snapper in a white wine and teriyaki reduction and chicken in a hazelnut liqueur, fish risotto and kale with ginger and garlic. I knew I'd done something right when Toya yelled into the kitchen "You put yo foot in these tacos!" I was asked to cook at a wedding.

But before that I'd been in constant motion for hours. Even with help such a meal is a never-ending checklist, particularly when you're not in your own kitchen. The oven was smaller than I expected. I used a different brand of syrup with the sesame oil and the taste wasn't the same. But I made it, and the people were happy. And Anisah was one year older.

The drinks came at me before the entrees were even out and Scott mispelled it dude, my sous-chefs and moral support as the night got hectic, was eager to see me join the party. He didn't know that I hadn't eaten in hours. I didn't remember that I hadn't eaten in hours. Three different kids of liquor in an empty belly. I thought I was just tired, that I needed to sit my ass down for a minute. I came awake long enough to see a few of the guests leave, but after that there was nothing until morning.

Seda would later inform me that I spent the night as pillow, as target for spray confetti, an entertainment while a game of Jenga was played several feet away. Others said that at one point I traveled through the party asking how many drinks folks had had. But what I did or didn't do in intoxication can only be determined by those who were there, as I have now experienced my very first blackout. And from what I hear it was a wild enough night for none of them to be doing any talking.

In most ways it went off without a hitch. And though I paid for my miscalculations for a good chunk of Sunday, the nature of the weekend was one where I got to answers to a whole lot of things that had been bouncing around in my head for awhile. Gut feelings were proven true. Flirtation was as thick as the pollen count in Central Park. And I made good food for good friends, which is always lovely squared. Out.