Game Night

Bunco was quite popular years ago; it gave people (mostly women) a chance to get together and play a simple card came where players move from table to table within the host house to complete points on their card. To me, Bunco involved too many rules and too much math. But the game itself was secondary to the other part of the game; the sense of community, the transmission of gossip, and a shit-ton of food. Some of these groups have continued to do this for years, even decades. These devotees were serious about their game.

We started our own game night with about ten people of varying ages and careers. It was whittled down, through no one’s fault, to a group with a common thread: teachers. My group of ragtag friends modified our game nights. We rotated monthly, meaning I had to deep clean my house just once every six months. Each hostess for the night chose the theme (or holiday), remembered whose birthday it was, and provided the main entrée and drinks. Everyone else brought appetizers, sides, experimental dishes, desserts, fruit, charcuterie boards - something. It could be home-made or store bought; we weren’t picky. I ordered Pizza Hut Wings and breadsticks when it was my turn; it was cheap ‘n’ easy, and I could pre-order.

We were all teachers at one time, five of us from the same school. One by one, each of retired or left the field. I was the last to go, and now that we’re post-pandemic and have all been vaccinated, we can resume our games soon. The games themselves varied from Pay Me, Mexican Train, a variant of Pictionary, Taboo, Balderdash, Aggravation, and others as we find them. The betting games we use skittles or M+Ms. We saved our calories during the week for game night. I thought the night we played Cards against Humanity was deeply funny, but some did not agree. That game was set aside and is no longer in the rotation. One host enjoyed Quelf, which must be the most outrageous game ever. It includes charades, having to do something (“Find and wear a tie”), jump up and down and scream, “I love ice cream!” write a poem, or the worst – you can’t talk until someone says the magic word. Each card had something different to do or say. If you didn’t do it, your piece didn’t move. An adult version of Truth or Dare, I suppose.

Some women have a deep understanding of the chemistry of cooking and can make meals worth a king’s ransom. I’m domestically impaired and don’t have much faith in my cooking. I’ll look up recipes on an app to find something with less than 10 ingredients, depending on our themes. Themes changed – we had Halloween, Lovers/Loners/Losers (Valentines) where the food had to be red or white. We once had ethnic party where we brought things that represented our heritage. Sometimes we’d make special requests: stuffed mushroom caps, cheese blintzes, fresh soda bread for St. Patrick’s Day. It was always scrumptious, and at the end of the night we could take home leftovers. At Christmas time we had cookie exchanges. In the summer I bribed my husband and son to set up the grill; I told the girls to bring what they wanted grilled, and the men took care of it.

The way a typical night unwound: people brought food in and set it on the counter. We eyeballed where we wanted to get our carbohydrates, and then after the first level of chit-chat, we hit the counter. Decorated plates filled with all sorts of goodies we had to been looking forward to all month. We’d sit around the game table and enjoy our meal, compliments all around, and still gossiping about everything and everyone. One woman talked about her grandkids, I talked about my classes, one talked of her boyfriend, one of her dancing troupe, one about new things she had read, and one who talked faster than anything in her Boston accent about anything 80s. Her ADD brought much excitement to the table. When we forgot whose turn in was, it was most likely hers.

The bottom line is that there were no hard-set rules for our nights as Bunco set forth, except for one: the host had to provide Twizzlers. I don’t know how that started, but it became a staple. We put them in decorative vases, bowls, plates, and once wrapped in ribbons. Most of us didn’t really care for them; it was just something that had to be there, and we nibbled on them for good luck when we were losing. For one of my parties, I provided a group of plates and bowls from Goodwill, and each person took their plate home. Some brought out the fancy plates, others the fancy disposables.

Occasionally game night morphed into something else. Sometimes we’d just eat, talk, and play with the dogs and/or kitties. Pets were spoiled with scritches and belly rubs. Once we watched an old 80s movie and laughed at the hairstyles (which, by the way, some of us were still wearing). Yes, we played a game or two, but that never seemed to be the focus of our game nights. At the end of the night, we’d say our goodbyes, and then disappeared into the night with our dishes of delight in tow. Once someone had the brilliant idea of going to Hamburger Mary’s for game night. It was a drag show/food bistro that delivered entertainment. We’ve often considered taking our game night to a restaurant and start a game there. We could plan a movie night as well.

Music of the host’s choice played in the background, from jazz to 80s, to classic rock, classical, and 50s. Always changing, I’m surprised we didn’t just go to a rave. We could tell how old people were by the sound level of the music and the choice. Elvis? N’Sync? We didn’t know what we would hear that night. Families of the hosts were temporarily banished into other rooms because, you know, we had some serious tea to spill.

One October, our friend Michelle made a birthday cake from scratch, and she was quite proud of it. It was a two-layer chocolate cake with vanilla icing in the middle layer and orange ginger-flavored icing with writing in brown frosting. To all of us, it was the most beautiful thing, and it was for my birthday. Its simplicity was its beauty. It was sight to behold.

After the games were halfway done, it was time to bring out the desserts. When Michelle first came in, she had placed the cake on the back counter, but now it was ready to be brought to the front table where we could get to it more easily. She picked up the cardboard bottom and lifted it. As she turned around, she misjudged where the cat was, which happened to be directly under her feet. In slow motion, the cake flew up in the air, the expression on her face formed into one of pure shock, and the cat ran for her dear life. Gravity worked its magic, and like buttered toast, the cake landed in the middle of the kitchen tile floor, face down. Crumbs of cake and icing slid across the floor and landed on her, the cabinets, the cat dish, the refrigerator, orange, and brown chocolatey goodness splattered in the no-man’s land of the floor.

And then we laughed. The thing she was most proud of, the thing we had been waiting for, was completely out of the question now. The look of defeat on her face was sad; she didn’t get even a taste of it. While the cleanup ensued, I texted my son to pick up two gallons of ice cream and bring it to this house. As we were finishing the game, a knock on the door had us all looking up. In came my son, who said, “I’m here to save the day. Voila!” and brought out the ice cream. Our host supplied the sauces, chocolates, sprinkles, whipped cream, and we made the best out of a sticky situation.

Nobody held it against her; sometimes chocolate cakes just jump out of our hands, and we can’t help it. We’d all made culinary mistakes in the seven years we’ve been doing this: burnt bread, overcooked danishes, undercooked chicken. We were lucky no one ever ended up with food poisoning. And once, just once, the Twizzlers were forgotten (GASP!).

The pandemic shut us down 2020 February. Most of us were getting older, and the youngest of the group was 54. It was during this time I retired, meaning now ALL of us had more time to do the things we’ve always wanted to do, like have game night on a Thursday morning and do breakfast instead. We intend to resume in August of 2021, continuing the tradition of food, fellowship, and laughing at things we did in our past. No more connections to school, we’d have to rely to information we find on Facebook or Twitter. Bunco groups can stick to their patterns and rules, but we’ll continue our unique game nights until we’re ready to join a Red Hat Society, AARP cards in hand and pensions going. The fun will continue one way or another.