My friend J often quotes me when the conversation turns to food. “Anne doesn’t just like to eat,” she says, noting that she actually wrote this down the first time I said it. “She likes to dine.”
It’s true. Whether I’m the chef or not, I like the table properly set, a full complement of silverware even for soup and a sandwich, and a cloth napkin. Salad on the left; water on the right. If we’re having ribs, there should be an empty bone bowl available. The same for shellfish. Corn on the cob belongs in one of those cute little butter boats; and anything that tends to be soupy – like creamy coleslaw, tomato sauce, or gravy – mustn’t mix with the steamed vegetables. I cut everything into small bites too.
Except for the cloth napkin, my husband has no such issues. He is even willing to eat standing up at our counter and right from the microwaved bowl of leftovers with whatever utensil does the job. He likes cold pizza and flat cola and disdains anything that resembles an haute couture vegetable. Which, in his mind, is almost all of them.
He is less of a diner and more of a grazer. Or maybe a snacker. Or a forager. Or a scavenger. Or one more example that opposites attract.
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