LONDON, England — Last night, my friend invited me over to his house, where he was roasting a wild boar. Such an invitation was impossible to reject, and although my images of a spit-skewered animal turning over an open flame turned out to be purely the work of my imagination, I was not in the least disappointed by the actual product. Our host’s girlfriend had recently purchased the beast in Corsica (“I carried it in an ice bag on the plane!” she claimed), and together with the olives, salad, and pasta, it was far better than anything I’ve recently eaten in a restaurant. The atmosphere of relaxed conversation and domesticity far surpassed the hyper buzz of eatery ambience, and we chose to view the bust fuse and lack of light as simply an extreme version of a traditional, dim setting. Even our willingness to sip wine from mugs could not detract from the dinner-party tone of adult independence.

I’ve been to a few such soirees this summer, and have done my best to cook for my friends in return. These are usually students’ versions of a dinner gathering—without the luxury of a dining table—but its absence only adds to the laid-back mood of joviality. Dinner parties seem to encourage generosity far more than any other event, and guests’ gifts of wine or dessert generate a communal pride in the collectively assembled meal.

Elaborate dining events are definitely an indulgence of holidays, with the time and kitchen space to prepare a meal. However, for my remaining month of vacation, I plan to eschew restaurants as much as possible. And I have every intention of searching out the nearest kitchen when I return to Harvard.


Olivia M. Goldhill ’11, a Crimson editorial writer, is a government concentrator in Kirkland House.