Shuffle the Cards. Pour Me A Cocktail. Pass the Casserole.

Each week, a group of us gathers for game night—a sacred ritual that begins with three days of intense calendar negotiations, borderline passive-aggressive group texts, and at least one dramatic “I might not be available” bluff. Eventually, we land on a night that works for everyone - usually a Tuesday or Wednesday - 6:00 p.m.

Now, let’s talk food. This isn’t always your average chips-and-salsa situation - although our bartender friend, Vince’s French Onion Dip, somehow gets a frequent nod at our events. No! We treat meal planning like a Michelin-starred summit. Will it be Midwest comfort food? Southern soul? Or a gourmet fever dream whipped up by Justin.

And speaking of Justin—our high-flying, sauté-slinging pilot who moonlights as a gourmet chef wannabe. His culinary ambitions are sky-high, even if his butter, sour cream laden mashed potatoes occasionally taxis off the runway. But we love him for it. Whether he’s plating his steak with gourmet sauce with surgical precision or Googling “Casseroles that Ina Garten would feed Jeffrey”, Justin brings a first-class (Southwest airlines style) flair to our gatherings. And when turbulence hits—be it in the air or in the kitchen—he’s the one you want in your corner, armed with a cocktail shaker and a backup plan.

Oh, next up in our group is Courtney, Our official culinary-trained Illinois hog farm boy wizard, who somehow manages to blend Midwestern grit with Michelin-level flair. Courtney’s the kind of guy who’ll whip up a meal using only pantry scraps and a vague memory of a his great aunt’s recipe card, all while quoting cooking technique like scripture He’s equal parts wizard and wisecracker, and when he’s in the kitchen, you know you’re about to eat something that tastes like it was blessed by the culinary gods and seasoned with a dash of sass.

Oh, and we now move on to Michael—our beloved kitchen dropout. Years ago, he dramatically hung up his apron and stormed out of the culinary arena, claiming (with the flair of a soap opera exit) that I was “too bossy” and offered “excessive guidance” while he was trying to sauté something that may or may not have been edible. I maintain that I was simply offering constructive brilliance, but alas, the spatula was flung, and the truce was signed.

Since then, Michael has been lovingly reassigned to the role of Chief Baker and Christmas Cookie Guru. And let me tell you, he has flour-dusted that title with pride. Every December, he emerges like a festive elf on a sugar high, armed with tins of perfectly iced cookies. He doesn’t cook anymore, but he bakes—with vengeance, precision, and just a touch of glitter.

And then there’s Clint —who glides into the room like a dessert diplomat, armed with Banana Pudding and Coconut Cream Pie so divine they could broker peace in the Middle East, end family feuds, and possibly reverse climate change if served at the right temperature/.

Arkansas may be known for Trump signs in every other front yard next to the discarded washing machine but let’s be honest—it’s the family roots of culinary wizards like Clint, who can turn sugar, eggs, and Southern charm into edible therapy. If diplomacy ever fails, I say we send Clint and a cooler full of pudding. World leaders won’t know what hit ‘em. And just last week he surprised us with an appetizer we’d not tried before - Martini Spread with crackers! It hit the spot as we all devoured it and agreeing it needed to be on ‘do it again’ list.

Oh, and I would be criminally negligent if I didn’t mention three other beloved game night regulars—Davis, Andy, and Matt—who, while not exactly culinary contributors (unless you count opening a bag of chips with flair), more than make up for it with their enthusiasm for cocktails, good company, and emotionally supportive snacking.

Matt is our resident vegetarian. Ah, Matt—the bashful broccoli whisperer of the bunch. He’s the kind of guy who politely declines the charcuterie board but will absolutely light up over a well-roasted Brussel sprout. Quiet in the corner until someone mentions kale, lentils, pasta, or any veggie imaginable and he lights up like a Christmas tree as he pours his next Captain Morgan’s and Diet Coke.

Andy, on the other hand, is a fearless food adventurer—unless the dish even whispers of seafood. If it swims, slithers, or once had gills, Andy will politely recoil like someone just offered him a plate of regret. But give him a casserole, a cocktail, or anything wrapped in puff pastry, and he’s in his happy place, humming show tunes between bites.

And then there’s Davis—beloved partner to Chef Jean- Pierre! Wait, scratch that. I meant Justin. Davis has a strict no-cook policy and a texture radar so sensitive it could detect a rogue tomato from across the room. Mushrooms? Absolutely not. They’re banned like bad exes.

But whip up a pot of Wendy’s Copycat Chili and suddenly you’re his soulmate. He’ll shower you with eternal gratitude and maybe even slip you a discount coupon from his workplace—Trusbridge Hospice, where morphine is less a medication and more God’s velvet rope into the VIP lounge of the afterlife.

Davis truly shines on game night, especially when he and Andy launch into their wildly inaccurate but wildly entertaining Middle Eastern accent routine. It’s part Lawrence of Arabia, part local deli owner, and 100% guaranteed to make you laugh your cocktail through your nose.

Me? I was raised by whisks and women who knew their way around a cast iron skillet. My grandmothers taught me that food was love, survival, and sass—all served hot. Later, I survived a stint as a short-order cook (think grease, chaos, and character-building burns), then fell headfirst into the gospel of cooking shows. Paula, Emeril, Julia—if they sautéed it, I studied it.

So yes, we gather—for casseroles and cocktails, for chili and cheeky banter, for the quiet comfort of familiar faces and the loud laughter that echoes off the walls as the cards are dealt around the table. Game night isn’t just about winning (though Clint’s pudding could earn diplomatic immunity); it’s about showing up, quirks and all. In this mismatched mosaic of personalities—vegetarians, sauce whisperers, hospice coupon kings, and puff pastry enthusiasts—we’ve built something sacred. A support group disguised as a dinner party. A chosen family that feeds the soul as much as the stomach. And that, my friends, is the heartbeat of Empathy on the Rocks.

Let’s Dish. Or Deal. Or Just Talk.

If this post stirred something in you—be it a memory, a chuckle, or a craving for casserole—I’d love to hear about it. Empathy on the Rocks is built on stories that connect us, and your voice matters here.

Click the CONTACT button at the top right of the homepage and share your thoughts, reflections, or favorite game night disasters. Whether it’s heartfelt or hilarious, I welcome it all. Bonus points if your casserole has a backstory.

Thanks for reading—and for being part of the conversation.