I like to imagine a cocktail party where everyone would act like a baby. They’d be in their fancy strapless dresses and suits, making grand conversation about politics and the arts, but then the tray of little quiches would come around, and they’d go completely bug-eyed and flap their arms up and down and whimper. And then they’d eat a little quiche, grunting over it in a busy way, and then they’d smile a big drooling smile, with quiche crumbs tumbling happily out of their mouths. Maybe every now and then someone would turn bright red and burst into tears before passing explosive gas and falling asleep.
– Catherine Newman, Waiting for Birdy