I invited former foster youth from the foundation network who had nowhere else to go, along with a handful of mentors and staff who understood the spirit of the evening. My chef nearly fainted when I requested that the menu include not only refined holiday dishes but also several unapologetically comforting, almost chaotic additions suggested by the guests themselves: baked mac and cheese, sweet potato casserole with marshmallows, spicy greens, a pie that looked homemade even though it was assembled by people with culinary awards.
My penthouse, for once, felt properly occupied.
People arrived unsure at first, carrying the social hesitation of those unused to entering rooms clearly built for a different tax bracket. But food and warmth and the absence of judgment work quickly. By the second hour, shoes had been kicked off, two guests were debating the superior method of making stuffing, someone’s toddler was asleep on a sofa under a cashmere throw, and laughter was reaching the ceiling in waves.
I moved among them carrying plates, refilling glasses, introducing people whose stories might fit together.
At one point a young woman named Celeste, twenty-one and in her first year at NYU on our scholarship, drifted toward the windows and stood looking out over Central Park in the dark.
“Pretty wild, huh?” I said, joining her.
She glanced at me, then back at the city lights. “I used to walk by buildings like this and wonder what kind of people lived in them.”
“And now?”
She smiled a little. “Now I guess I know.”
“What kind?”
She considered.
“People who decide who gets invited in.”
I looked at her reflection in the glass—smart, guarded, hungry in the way I recognized instantly.
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
Later, after dessert, someone asked whether there was a dress code for next year.
Before I could answer, another guest—a social worker turned nonprofit director with blue hair and magnificent earrings—called from across the room, “Whatever color we want.”
The room erupted in agreement.
Leave a Comment