I don’t know if it’s an ironclad rule, but I’ve always heard it is considered impolite to talk about religion, politics or money at the dinner table. It makes sense, because we should enjoy eating together, not dread it. And it still leaves plenty of things to talk about – work, family, sports, pets, hobbies, and if all else fails, at least you can talk about the food.

“Mmmm, it’s wonderful,” I said to Libby, our hostess, “The best chicken I’ve had in a long time.”

“I didn’t know people still ate meat,” said Cabernet from the far end of the table. “The mere thought of animal flesh makes me sick.” Cabernet, I found out later, had become a totally committed, radical vegan at one o’clock the previous afternoon during a first date with her new boyfriend, Willoughby.

“I always heard Hitler was a vegetarian,” said Don between bites. The sudden silence around the table made him realize that this factoid could be taken the wrong way; he quickly added, “So was George Bernard Shaw. And Julius Caesar and, oh, lots of awesome people.”

“I can hear the poor thing scream with every bite you take!” Cabernet snapped and took another swig of white wine.

Libby was not offended. “I don’t think chickens scream. They cluck, don’t they? Anyway, the guy at the store said it was cruelty-free, free-range chicken.”