“How long should I heat the turkey burger for?” Alexander asks. “”About three minutes. Maybe less. It just needs to be warmed up.” “And what about the roll? Should I put that in the microwave, too?” “No, it’s better to just put the roll in the toaster.”
Less than five minutes later I hear, “My dinner is ruined. I followed your directions and look what happened.” I come into the kitchen just as Alexander is using a fork to pry the burnt roll from the clutches of the toaster. And as if that isn’t bad enough, he shows me the turkey burger, still in the microwave, sitting between (not on) two pieces of a beautiful ceramic plate that used to be one. I guess my dishware is not microwavable beyond two minutes.
I, on the other hand, have a superb dinner. Carl is in town and he’s asked that I choose the restaurant. There’s a nearby small Italian restaurant that for a year now, I’ve been suggesting as a destination whenever we have a girl’s birthday celebration, and for various reasons, my suggestion has always been overruled. But tonight it’s not and Carl and I meet at Alloro. Carl quickly observes the restaurant’s authenticity by saying, “It’s a good sign when all the waiters speak Italian.”
I am not paying attention to points, although by conditioning I have only one piece of bread. I start with something called eggplant parmesan, traditional and revisited. There is nothing ordinary about it, and I can understand why it is the one thing on the ample appetizer menu that never changes. Our conversation begins comfortably. I order one glass of red wine, and later have another. By the meal’s end I can definitely feel the effects of the wine. For the main course, I have sliced duck breast, orange sauce, turnip puree (my second time with a turnip-anything this week) and a tiny eggplant and chocolate tort (whoever created this gem is a culinary genius). Each plate delivered to the table is a mini masterpiece. I follow Carl’s lead and skip dessert.
By the end of the meal I fear I’ve become less filtered. When Carl asks, “What about us?,” there are a million better answers to give than the one I did. “This is why I don’t like long distant relationships. If you lived here, you would never have asked this question on our second date,” I say. If Carl lived here, things would not need to accelerate quickly. It is only after I get home that I worry about my words being too harsh.
Carl is a really great guy. I like many things about him. He’s smart (very), athletic, interesting, has a powerful personality, is kind, and while strong, is not overbearing at all.
I like him. But Idaho is a long way from New York.
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