Hi friends! I was genuinely concerned that today’s post would have to be distributed via flyers stapled on telephone poles along the Main Line- my computer has called it quits and there appears to be no reviving it. (This entry is being delivered through telepathy. Next up, bent spoons.) Actually, Brian has been kind enough to share the secret password to his laptop and so the world may partake in more food adventures. Yay!
Today I had dinner with CJ, with whom I’m going to the rugby formal Thursday. Like many girls, the first couple times that I meet someone, I don’t eat very much—I tend to get involved in the conversation or self-conscious about the spinach miraculously adhered to my nose—and I’m afraid that my pickiness will put off my companion. Of course this worry was entirely unfounded, or possibly just eased by the Covey Run Riesling, which we picked to complement both the spicy blackened tilapia as well as the pork roulade. (Without attempting to step on any well-polished wingtip toes, I’d like to protest the “green apple” and “honeysuckle” flavors indicated on the menu—we both noted a distinctly pleasant berry-ness.)
After tasting one [BAM!] bite of flaky tilapia and a bit of belly-warming shrimp-and-sweet-potato hash, a smidge of tender pork wrapped around eye-watering long hots and some just-wilted spinach, we became caught up in discussing the critical nature of bonfires to the teenage social scene and the benefits of growing up in the country to a child’s development; and it dawned on me that sometimes, you only want a bite. (Do not trust my mother if she tries this line on you.) Like getting to know someone for the first time, the first bite is the most savory, the freshest, the most novel; you can revel in the heat of the spice, the gentle ocean pull of the fish, the fruitiness of the long hot. So, go ahead, girls, forget about your dinner after one bite. Just don’t forget to enjoy it.