I offered a challenge to some of my fellow food bloggers by sending them a picture of a table setting and then asking: What would you serve with this table setting. Kitchen Riffs was the first to jump into the pool. This time it’s Homemade in the Kitchen formerly Chocolate Moosey. My challenge was to look at both the table setting and what was on the menu and come up with a little scenario/story. So here goes….
Quit rearranging the silverware. Will he care? Do I care? Yes, I care. I repositioned the forks one millimeter to the left. Stop it. I jerked my hands back. Sometimes my inner voice can be so tyrannical. I reached over and moved the centerpiece a tad in defiance.
I can do this. Yes, I can. Look at me, I AM doing it. Yay for me. The rah rah affirmations hung limply in the air. When I was cooking the dinner, handling my pots, and even flipping my knives in sync with The Rolling Stones blasting away in the living room, life was slippery smooth. For a couple of hours I had myself completely fooled that I was cucumber cool, no I was way cooler than a mere cucumber. I was Mick Jagger cool.
Remember when the door bell rings, breathe in calmness and peace. Open the door, breathe out a smile and say welcome. How hard is that? What if my hands start trembling? I’ve pretty much out grown that nervous reaction, but tonight was bringing back old, awkward, teenage angst. Hey, I’ll put my hands casually in my pockets like a model doing a photo shoot. Then pirouette and gracefully kick the door shut.
Why did I even invite him? What was I thinking? Hey, like he changed my flat tire in a thunder and lightening storm. Thus I was on time to meet the VIP client from New York. Oh right. Good reason. I definitely owe him.
It’s not his fault he’s a candidate for a hot fireman calendar. Plus he’s really a fireman. Maybe I should dim the lights, so the candles appear more luminous. No, I won’t do that. It looks too much like a date. Definitely not a date. Just a neighborly thank you for changing my tire. Boy Howdy, he sure looked hot in his wet t-shirt. I didn’t just think that. No, no I didn’t. Yes I did. Naughty. Naughty.
Music. I should put on some music. Too date like? Everybody likes music. There’s music in elevators; riding an elevator isn’t a date. Maybe music will cleanse away the nervous electrical static that is buzzing in here now.
This is stupid. I’m 24, a college graduate with a professional job. Inviting someone over for dinner, well a male someone, isn’t a big deal. I’ve done it before, just never alone. Like he and me and no one else. Just because he is an eleven on a ten point hunky scale is beside the point. It’s just a simple thank you dinner.
At least the dinner is under control. Me and the kitchen go together like peanut butter and jelly.
Yikes, the doorbell is ringing. What am I’m going to do now? Oh right, first things first, open the door. Breathe in calm and peace. Breathe out a smile.
“Hi back. Wow it smells delicious. Here, these pink roses are for you, the prettiest girl in the neighborhood. I can’t believe my luck that you invited me for dinner. I will admit right off I’m a bit nervous.”
I blinked. Life is amazing. “Come in. Thank you, pink roses are my favorite.”
Let’s see what what our heroine is serving up for dinner for Mr. Hunk.