My husband and I were invited to attend one of those murder mystery dinners this weekend. We’ve gone to these things a few times in the past, and both of us have been struck with how much they feel like play-dates for adults: there’s always a hostess trying to marshal everyone into their places and get the activities started, along with a dozen or so attendees who want to know when they’re going to be fed.

This particular party is at the home of a friend who’s a die-hard vegan. That means two things to us. First, we’ll have to eat before we go have dinner at her place, because my husband thinks a meal without meat is, basically, crap. Second, she’s almost certain to be wearing one of those sexy costumes designed to show us meat-eaters how much better her life is for subsisting on lettuce leaves and sprouts.

Which is fine, really. See, she’s had a long-time crush on my husband, so in the past three murder mystery dinners she’s thrown she’s cast herself as the victim and me as the villain. And, frankly, if she tries passing off wilted romaine and mealy tomatoes as dinner again, there might not be much of a “mystery” to solve.

Tags: murder mystery dinners