“It’s… a lot,” I said, eyes roaming all the way down to the end of the table, trying to take in the enormous spread. It was beautiful, its own piece of artwork, really. Just looking at it made me want to paint, perhaps with oils…

The colors and shapes, the heaping bowls and platters of food in their fancy, bone-white china. Some of the food was what I considered classic New Orleans cuisine, most of which I’d never tried—several types of gumbo, which smelled spicy and delicious, heaps of blood-red crawfish, tails and eyes and all, with sausage and corn, the biggest crab legs I’d ever seen, red beans and rice, jambalaya, and a few different mystery soups. As though that weren’t enough, I spotted fried fish and chicken, and several different types of potatoes.

My mouth watered as my eyes roved from dish to dish, wondering how I would reach it all from my place at the head of the table. But part of me had to agree with Elizabeth, which came as a shock to me. This was too much food. Even for six hungry grown women.

Mara was standing in front of her seat, phone in hand, trying to get the perfect picture. Finally, I watched her stand up on the seat of her fancy chair and snap a full photo of the food spread from above. When she was done, she turned toward me and smiled, pointing her phone’s camera at my face and clicking over and over. Great. More double-chinned photos for Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

The head of staff, or so I presumed, emerged from the kitchen with two other waiters. Her name was Delfina, if I remembered correctly. She looked old and matronly, and serious in her stiff, white apron.

Each waiter carried several bottles of alcohol, elegantly holding each one as though it were a treasured gift.

Delfina arrived at my right elbow and smiled politely. “Welcome to our guest of honor. What would you like to start with? Champagne, or wine? I have red and white.”

I’d never been much of a wine drinker, preferring soda or tea with my meals. Asher liked to drink beer occasionally, and sometimes I drank a bottle or two with him when he got home from work. But wine wasn’t really my thing.

But tonight was all about me. It’s a celebration, I reminded myself. It was okay to cut loose, and maybe alcohol would help me shake off this nervous edge I couldn’t help feeling. Plus, turning it down felt rude. They talked about peer pressure like it was something that only affected teens, but adulthood was just as bad, or worse, sometimes.

“I’ll try the champagne, please.”

Delfina poured a small amount in my shiny glass and then nodded expectantly, waiting for me to taste it.