Dinner Conversation

"We sat at the bar,

Eating bread from Forfar,

And she said 'And what are you doing here?'”

Questioning authority delegates someone as the author. So it is to you I write as the author, allowing you to question. You can take it as fact or fiction. Take it with Billy Joel in mind; take it as a bagel with not enough cream cheese, spread too thin.

It started with the bread; it culminated with the starters. I was interrupted in the middle of eating pork belly. That’s not right. Pork belly is a pinnacle of food. It parties in the food halls of Valhalla, has a rightful throne atop Mt. Food Olympus. I would wrap myself in a blanket of it, to provide protection and warmth. If Luke could choose pork belly or Tauntaun belly to keep him alive on Hoth, you bet your ass he’d choose pork belly.

The room was already stifling, something that you could write off as the charm of a centuries-old farmhouse, but it was only at that moment that I began to actually realize it. A hot dining room can come off as a burden that each diner feels is theirs alone to shoulder. Do you debase the austerity of luxurious fine dining by removing your blazer? Throw couth out the window by rolling up your sleeves? Verbal fisticuffs were close at hand, but damnit, my cufflinks were cool, and given to me by someone I love very much.

Downhill skiing requires an athletic stance; so does a terrorist attack. Somewhere in between the two, fork tines plunged into the remnants of scallops and pork belly came the questioning of not only my lifestyle, but my existence at this place, in this time. Time for that athletic stance; and at the dinner table no less. The uniquities of international life give me single note coins, much better chocolate bars, and better access to the BBC. I’ve learned to love where I am, even if I’m yet to fully love myself. I’ve learned to not extend that love to others, though. Some people out there I neither love nor hate. I nothing them.

The way conversation can swirl like bad tye-dye is something that can bring joy or pain to a meal, where food and verse exist like infused oil atop a blended soup. They’ll never fully mix, but they can certainly compliment each other and work in harmony if done correctly.

I was thinking this as indeed, a soup was placed in front of me. Lightly spiced curry soup with a mint oil garnish. What struck me was not how the flavors melded in the cup, but was in fact my own appreciation for get only a demitasse cup of it. You see, you can’t throw a demitasse cup of soup in someone’s face. Fury doesn’t dissipate well in 1 ½ fluid ounces.

I can only pray that the lying, cheating, and stealing I’ve perpetrated throughout the years is somewhat curtailed by the penance of suffering through this poorly scripted dinner scene. I want to believe that pork products could indeed solve the majority of problems, when in fact history may prove they have only perpetuated them.

So, as the pork disappeared from the table, so did the tension. Entrees brought highland beef filet with braised cheeks, a cooled room and lowered sleeves. Cufflinks shone in the rise and fall of glinting cutlery, reminding me of those who were in my camp, and of those who could exist in the food badlands, alongside mango salsa and raspberry vinaigrette.