I have 3 kinds of blue cheese in my fridge. I got Roquefort, Gorgonzola and Stilton at Trader Joe’s to see if I can tell them apart and/or care about the differences.
So, of course, Chuck prefers one and I prefer another. 
I really only have a preference when I’m eating them at the same time. Individually, I like them all.
Actually, they were probably 2 and a half. I was still sharing space with my first husband in Charleston, South Carolina but, functioning as a single parent. I’ve forgotten where he was. It doesn’t matter. I wanted food I had not prepared for myself and served to me. I wanted some graciousness. We had been going out to eat with my parents for their whole life so restaurants weren’t entirely alien. This was just our first time solo.
I called an Italian restaurant down the road to see if they needed a reservation. They did not. It was the middle of the week and a fairly quiet evening.
We dressed up. My child has always loved to dress for festive occasions and knew that this meant we were doing something special.
When the host saw my date, his eyes got big for a moment. I said, “If there is a problem, we can leave.” He recovered and said, “Oh no. Right this way.” and led us to a booth. “I’m afraid we don’t have any high chairs or boosters.” I said. “We’ll be fine without that.”
A couple across the room saw us and looked worried as they leaned in to talk to each other, shooting glances at us as they talked. Other heads had turned as we walked across the room.
My date had water, glass half full, with a straw and spaghetti with meat sauce, skip the salad. I had unsweetened tea, salad and some other dish. We chatted as we waited.
They were a little messy eating and decided to sit on my side of the table so it was easier for me to help manage the pasta. The only mess was their face, though. Not the tablecloth or the floor. And they stayed with me. No trying to investigate the room. I had decided before we left the house that if any of that started, I would pay and we would leave.
When the waiter brought our check, he had gone from the nervous young man darting looks at my companion to all smiles. He said, “Please, come again. It has been a delight to serve you.”
The other diners around the room smiled at us as we walked by and nodded at the child with a little tomato sauce on their sweater.
The smiling host held the door for us and invited us to return any time.
This is one of the snapshot memories I have of my little child.
Another is two years later. They had samosas while I ate saag paneer at a booth in Greensboro. The Indian restaurant was a little more casual and my child was 4. The staff was quite sanguine about a child dining with their mother.
We’re going out for Indian food this Saturday. They will be 31 on Sunday. Exactly half my age. They say it feels like they’re catching up to me.
The broken mug has been my coffee cup since I got it on a road trip to Philadelphia in 2014. We stayed at an AirBnB that had inadequate coffee cups and I had neglected to bring a travel mug. As we continued northward, we saw white bicycles along the side of the highway with signs that said Farm Stand and Art and Pottery. So, we stopped at The Lion Potter near Gettysburg and I found a mug that fit my hand perfectly.
I haven’t looked very hard for a replacement. But, the white mug is my tea cup and it doesn’t feel right holding coffee.
This is not something that can be a given as a surprise gift. It’s kind of like buying shoes. I have to be able to try it on.
My grandmother gave me a hundred year old book that had been created by a friend of hers. The woman had taken a blank book and decorated pages to be the starting places for courses. And she asked her friends to write favorite recipes in it. (There was some weird shit being eaten in middle Tennessee in the early part of the last century.) I thought that was a cool idea, though. And I decided I would do a variation on the theme so when my child moved out, they could take usable recipe book for the things I prepared for them.
Unfortunately, my second husband decided that what was mine was his and he used it for his own notes for recipes. Nothing was actually usable. It was just a mess. So, I thought I would start over.
Before I got very far along, free blogs had become a thing. And I thought “Why not do that?” It makes it easier to share a recipe if someone asks for it. It’s easier to make modifications if something doesn’t work for me. And it’s easier to read because my handwriting can be a mess. So, my iPad is my cookbook when I get busy in the kitchen.
I still have that old cookbook. Louise put quotes about dining, food in general and the individual ingredients all through the book. There are some food related newspaper clippings. She did water color pictures at the beginning of each section. And she had everyone sign the recipes they added. Some recipes took 2 pages. Some people crammed theirs on a page with 2 others. And the handwriting is sometimes difficult to read. They all knew what “hot” meant. There was never a temperature given or an actual time noted. It would take some thought for me to use a lot of those recipes. It was fun to read, though.
I wish restaurants wouldn’t call any random salad they want to fancy up a Caesar salad.
Kale & Radicchio, with creamy sunflower dressing, grilled onion, nori, and whatever “crumble” is, is NOT remotely a Caesar salad.
They aren’t even cousins.
I am the Audience 