For the past year or so, I’ve been hosting two of my husband’s best friends on a very regular basis for dinner. They’ve both recently become bachelors and are always hungry for a meal, so about once or twice a month I invite them over to get fed. Usually, they come on a Wednesday. One almost always brings me roses he picks up at Kroger on his way from work. The other brings a pack of raw salmon or a pheasant he shot that weekend. And the other day, as my husband shook martinis and they took their regular seats at the kitchen island, I realized it’s become one of my favorite things to do.

It’s rare to be the only woman at a table of men and, at first, I felt a little uncomfortable, suspecting maybe I should go into the other room so they could talk about cars and fishing — or something. But as they sipped and I cooked, they seemed comfortable enough with my presence and now I’m used to being part of the mix.

I’ve learned having men over, as opposed to women, is incredibly interesting.

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In my never-ending effort to keep trim, and in a final push to be at my goal weight for my 37^th birthday, I found myself wandering aimlessly around the grocery the other day looking for something delicious and low-cal. Probably, I should have looked no farther than the produce department since things like carrot sticks and apple slices are the only real diet food. But you know what? It’s April and the produce still sucks. After a while, the idea of having yet another banana makes you want to barf.

But then I passed by the organic dairy section and I noticed that the yogurt selection has grown considerably. I pass by this section often, and over the past year have increasingly been putting plain Fage yogurt in my basket. I find that when it comes to toning down a hot curry or adding excitement to a thick soup, it does a good job.

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There are many differences between men and women, but according to my stepdad Peter, one of the most reliable of them has to do with how we slice bread. He pointed this out to me while we were in my kitchen a few months back and I stood with a loaf of bread before me that was decidedly lopsided.

“I take it you have something to do with that?” he asked in his mild Australian accent.

I turned with the smile I only reserve for Peter because I just love him so much.

“Maybe.”

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Last Friday, my friend Sarah and I stood wrestling a helium tank into the kitchen. We’d squeaked it past the cars in the garage and now there were the six stairs leading to the house to contend with. As I stood looking at Sarah, who is as big as a minute, and the tank, which was as big as a monster, the idea of actually getting it forward, never mind upward, was starting to feel impossible. But Sarah, with her ox-like work ethic, wasn’t about to give up and with superhuman strength hoisted the bottom up.

“Ready?”

So we heaved, hoed, heaved, hoed the thing up the steps and finally settled it down on the kitchen floor, Sarah punctuating the victory by tripping and hitting her head on the door. We were both out of breath, a little giddy by what we’d accomplished, a little scared by what other injuries could have been sustained. But the tank, it was inside. And now the party could start.

Because Gabrielle Baker was about to turn 14. And she was going to have her some balloons.

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