Haelix
02-22-2007, 12:05 AM
The Dreaming Meal
"So then I said... no YOU'RE the son of a bitch!" and we laughed til tears welled up casually in our eyes. God damn I'm awful witty tonight I think to myself, top of my game. And it's a good thing too. Across from me sits the physical manifestation of the one that appears in my mind as I sleep, a female Heimdall of my dreams.
With laughter dying down, a tide sweeping out leaving a pleasant lull in conversation, I take another bite of what I thought was an appetizer, but seems to be a meal in itself.
Our salad had already come and gone to the tune of a thick bed of romaine, pillowed with freshly baked garlic bread cubed into croutons, and blanketed with parmesan cheese and Caesar dressing. The waiter’s hand had cramped from the prolonged twisting of the black pepper grinder. I love my “fresh-a-peppa” as Dana Carvey put it.
But this potato before me was unlike anything I had ever had. The skin had been hand-rubbed with large amounts of thick-grained salt and was crispity without the crunchity. It was one of those “twice-baked” affairs where they had removed the potato guts once already and re-baked them in again with generous portions of a cinnamon-butter, sour cream, mesquite-grilled bacon chopped into bits, and some ranch dressing mixed in for fun.
As I let the fork slide from my lips, delivering its payload of creamy potato goodness to my mouth, I gazed past my date out a window to reveal my ideal place; the rolling green hills of Ireland. While I consciously know I’ve never been, there seems a sharp pulling to this place, a familiarity like we’ve been long friends, and in this dream I’m home.
She asks a question and as I’m growing accustomed to her accent, I have to ask her to repeat it. “I asked, how long are you in town?” It was an innocent question, but the way her viridian eyes sparkled and her pale white chin shook with an almost imperceptible nervousness, I knew innocence would play no part in the events foretold by the way the tip of her tongue emphatically brushed her teeth, lilting thru her question with that killer accent again. I’d trade all the sex in the world to hear her read me a book, and simply listen to her speak.
“Well sweetheart, you probably know that better than I.” I smiled, a knowing connection, a self-awareness that I was in a dream, and she was always here.
I reached for another piece of bread, baked with roasted garlic oil on top and she stopped me. “You’re going to fill up on that you know, then you won’t be able to eat the main course. I hope they cook it like they always do! Importing those large pineapples, slicing them in half and scooping out a little bit of the fruit. It leaves the perfect hole for meat you know?” her innuendo is every bit as good as her tongue tracing the outer part of my ear. “Once they scoop out the fruit, then they can take those tender chicken breasts and put them in the pineapple shell. Then they pour that thick barbecue sauce all in the hollow, and replace the pineapple they scooped out on top. After they went through all the trouble to do all that, you want to fill up on bread? I think not mister!”
Playful and bossy, she puts on motherly airs occasionally in public, but when we get to the room, we both know whom belongs to whom. But she had a point. And even though I wanted nothing more than to break off a piece of that bread and dip it in the olive oil concoction mixed with a balsamic vinaigrette, more roasted, chopped garlic and black pepper, I waited until the waiter brought each of us our own pineapple and plate.
Always the playfully dirty one, she hand-scooped into her pineapple to pull out the chicken. I dismissed her Leo to my Capricorn, and used my fork to scoop out the bits of pineapple, uncovering a filet of chicken that had been roasting in pineapple juices and barbeque sauce for the better part of a day.
After that, I had reached max capacity and sat back easily, tracing the curves of her red hair and slightly freckled face with my dark brown eyes. I laughed as she seemed so into the cutting and enjoyment of each bite. She always was a slower eater than I.
Once we both finished, the waiter spoke the coup de grace. “We have a freshly homemade Crème Brulee if you would like.”
No I wouldn’t like. But I sure would love it. He brought “God’s own dessert” to the table complete with the tell-tale caramelized layer on top sporting a few raspberries and a blueberry for color and flavor.
This would be the time to die. I was complete. The verbal conversation was nearing a close but the conversations of our eyes were just getting started. We finished and headed out into the evening, my arm resting idly like a shawl around her shoulder, back to a hotel room that would surely sweat with embarrassment at the things we were about to do.
----
Damn, now I'm hungry and its 2am. Anyone know a place that serves creme brulee this late?
"So then I said... no YOU'RE the son of a bitch!" and we laughed til tears welled up casually in our eyes. God damn I'm awful witty tonight I think to myself, top of my game. And it's a good thing too. Across from me sits the physical manifestation of the one that appears in my mind as I sleep, a female Heimdall of my dreams.
With laughter dying down, a tide sweeping out leaving a pleasant lull in conversation, I take another bite of what I thought was an appetizer, but seems to be a meal in itself.
Our salad had already come and gone to the tune of a thick bed of romaine, pillowed with freshly baked garlic bread cubed into croutons, and blanketed with parmesan cheese and Caesar dressing. The waiter’s hand had cramped from the prolonged twisting of the black pepper grinder. I love my “fresh-a-peppa” as Dana Carvey put it.
But this potato before me was unlike anything I had ever had. The skin had been hand-rubbed with large amounts of thick-grained salt and was crispity without the crunchity. It was one of those “twice-baked” affairs where they had removed the potato guts once already and re-baked them in again with generous portions of a cinnamon-butter, sour cream, mesquite-grilled bacon chopped into bits, and some ranch dressing mixed in for fun.
As I let the fork slide from my lips, delivering its payload of creamy potato goodness to my mouth, I gazed past my date out a window to reveal my ideal place; the rolling green hills of Ireland. While I consciously know I’ve never been, there seems a sharp pulling to this place, a familiarity like we’ve been long friends, and in this dream I’m home.
She asks a question and as I’m growing accustomed to her accent, I have to ask her to repeat it. “I asked, how long are you in town?” It was an innocent question, but the way her viridian eyes sparkled and her pale white chin shook with an almost imperceptible nervousness, I knew innocence would play no part in the events foretold by the way the tip of her tongue emphatically brushed her teeth, lilting thru her question with that killer accent again. I’d trade all the sex in the world to hear her read me a book, and simply listen to her speak.
“Well sweetheart, you probably know that better than I.” I smiled, a knowing connection, a self-awareness that I was in a dream, and she was always here.
I reached for another piece of bread, baked with roasted garlic oil on top and she stopped me. “You’re going to fill up on that you know, then you won’t be able to eat the main course. I hope they cook it like they always do! Importing those large pineapples, slicing them in half and scooping out a little bit of the fruit. It leaves the perfect hole for meat you know?” her innuendo is every bit as good as her tongue tracing the outer part of my ear. “Once they scoop out the fruit, then they can take those tender chicken breasts and put them in the pineapple shell. Then they pour that thick barbecue sauce all in the hollow, and replace the pineapple they scooped out on top. After they went through all the trouble to do all that, you want to fill up on bread? I think not mister!”
Playful and bossy, she puts on motherly airs occasionally in public, but when we get to the room, we both know whom belongs to whom. But she had a point. And even though I wanted nothing more than to break off a piece of that bread and dip it in the olive oil concoction mixed with a balsamic vinaigrette, more roasted, chopped garlic and black pepper, I waited until the waiter brought each of us our own pineapple and plate.
Always the playfully dirty one, she hand-scooped into her pineapple to pull out the chicken. I dismissed her Leo to my Capricorn, and used my fork to scoop out the bits of pineapple, uncovering a filet of chicken that had been roasting in pineapple juices and barbeque sauce for the better part of a day.
After that, I had reached max capacity and sat back easily, tracing the curves of her red hair and slightly freckled face with my dark brown eyes. I laughed as she seemed so into the cutting and enjoyment of each bite. She always was a slower eater than I.
Once we both finished, the waiter spoke the coup de grace. “We have a freshly homemade Crème Brulee if you would like.”
No I wouldn’t like. But I sure would love it. He brought “God’s own dessert” to the table complete with the tell-tale caramelized layer on top sporting a few raspberries and a blueberry for color and flavor.
This would be the time to die. I was complete. The verbal conversation was nearing a close but the conversations of our eyes were just getting started. We finished and headed out into the evening, my arm resting idly like a shawl around her shoulder, back to a hotel room that would surely sweat with embarrassment at the things we were about to do.
----
Damn, now I'm hungry and its 2am. Anyone know a place that serves creme brulee this late?