Christina Oxenberg

April 29, 2009

In deference to the tradition of presenting a gift to one?s host I gave serious consideration to what, exactly, I should proffer when I was invited to lunch this past Sunday.

I cruised the aisles of a local fancy foods establishment and dawdled a long while in front of a freezer packed with ice creams. I salivated at the descriptions of just about everything.

But no, I thought, it didn?t seem quite right. Vaguely, I surmised, ice cream was better suited to a tragic lonely afternoon. I settled on a bouquet of wild flowers.

Because this is the Hamptons (and despite the fact the colorful fronds were probably ripped from the delicatessen?s back yard) they cost near eight thousand dollars, and I?m only exaggerating the littlest bit. My appetite was struck a blow by this gouge; nevertheless, onward I went to the house of my host.

Said host took the florid bunch from me and, with a pair of kitchen scissors, he snipped off the cellophane wrapping.  Then, in an imperceptible millisecond, his tiny daughter?s fingertip met with the scissor blades. No one knows exactly how this happened, but the little girl broke out in squeals of pain as blood gushed over a plate of uncooked prawns. The tip of her finger hung loose.

Good dad that he is, he bustled the unhappy child into his SUV and made off for the hospital for a stitch or two to repair the finger. Later I would learn the damage was permanent.

And then all was quiet in the magnificent, ultra-modern beach house. Left behind with the as yet uncooked comestibles, aubergines, filet mignon, the aforementioned pale grey prawns which still dripped with dollops of blood, I was in no mood to cook. A quick rummage in the freezer revealed a bounty of frozen desserts. I removed a tub of Haagen Dazs and repaired to a sun chair. With a spoonful of sorbet I toasted the otherwise perfect bloody Sunday.