Oh, That First Date

February 12th, 2010 | Author: Greta

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I was asked by my editor (Yes, Greta has an editor. You think I would navigate through saving enlisted mothers across the globe without a pilot?), to write a story about my husband’s and my first date. I thought for a moment and decided that would be impossible since the details of it have no literary promise whatsoever. No opportunity for metaphor, theme or even hyperbole. In fact it wasn’t even a date. It was an improvised outing that involved a respectable number of sparks, but in a setting that is, well, Denny’s.

Yes, our first date was at Denny’s, back when people still went to Denny’s. A simpler, more innocent time when we embraced GMOs, and enjoyed the nuanced gooiness of hydrogenated oil. It was before Food Network taught us that food snobbery is the inalienable privilege of everyone who has cable.

The choice of Denny’s was not terribly calculated, but came on the heels of his helping me rehearse an aria. That’s opera talk for song, if you’re not a fan of these things. (Yes, we met in an opera. I was the lead and died in his arms. Now THAT has a print-worthy ring to it with all the necessary romantic imagery, up until the point where I tell you that I came back to life, and that the opera was a comedy and about spiders. And we performed it at a community college. Perhaps my editor, whose main duty it is to say, “I like that,” (my fault, not his) should intervene here. Am I off topic?)

So my date ate Moons Over My Hammy and I probably had a scrambled egg with ketchup (I know) and some Earl Grey tea, a low-calorie, healthy snack for the slender version of myself that inhabited my 20s. Beyond that, the date was unremarkable, though my husband might tell it a bit differently, and love blossomed over time, after several meals of Cheddar-flavored Hamburger Helper and cheese bread, made by the interesting, handsome, wildish bachelor that was to one day be the father of my children. Hamburger Helper is surprisingly good, especially when it is made by a man who has really pretty eyes and sings like a bubble gum version of Thomas Hampson and is way more relaxed and impressed with me than Thomas Hampson would ever be. I met Thomas Hampson at a master class and while he is handsome and can sing with more precise vocal technique than my husband, I could not for the life of me imagine sitting on my couch with him, telling bad jokes and drinking cappuccino. And he would NEVER read my blog before bed. It would cut into his reading time devoted to Lord Byron or Ralph Waldo Emerson. Or Percy Bysshe Shelly. Who is Percy Bysshe Shelley, anyway?

So I won’t be able to blog about our first date with any effectiveness. While there may have been a better date with all the trappings of romance, I don’t even remember it. But the greatest ‘a ha’ moment, when I decided for certain that this man would be the one with whom I would share my life and create three children who would need to be shuttled to and fro the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL, was the Round Table incident. Again, a poor setting that definitely lacks the romance of, say, a Shakespearean forest or countryside. If I can find another blog with a prettier story, one involving artfully cooked Ahi decorated in ribbons of wasabi-aioli glaze, French wine, roses and Michael Buble, I will link you (as long as you don’t give that person your Babble vote).

We’re celebrating 14 Days Of Food And Love. Check back tomorrow for another heart sharped blog about things to eat and squeeze