When it comes to eating, I always save a special bite of food for very last. I’m one of those eaters that samples everything on my plate first, and then I prioritize each sampling according to it’s tastiness, mixing together the perfect forkful of food to save for my very last bite of the meal as a kind of last-bite-savory-reward. Entire meals are usually spent perfecting this final bite of food – I can carry a conversation around the table and laugh and enjoy wine with everyone, but inside my head runs this constant dialogue considering each bite of food and setting aside the best specimens of everything on my plate. It sounds a little mental patient-ish, but without that last bite of food to savor and look forward to at the end of the meal, my dining experiences just aren’t complete.
There’s a problem with this system of dining though. To the untrained eye, that final perfect bite of food that I set aside for last, looks like a reject. And when we first started dating, Jeff definitely had an untrained eye.
It all happened in slow motion one evening when we went out for burgers. As I was prioritizing my last few sweet potato fries (we LOVE sweet potato fries!), I set aside my Best Fry For Last. It hung on the edge of my plate, dainty and innocent, and out of nowhere a large freckled hand closed in, snatched it from it’s resting place, dragged it across the table and chomped down on it with a gleeful smile.
“You didn’t want that right?”
The first time I told Jeff about my whole last-bite-of-food-thing, it may be the first time that I felt crazy. As if I actually had a mental problem that really should be checked out. The first time I leveled on him the sheer importance of that last bite of food was the first time I heard the words actually leave my mouth.
“If you eat my last bite of food again, you will have no fingers.”
And here’s the thing with love – it bends and moves to the patterns of our craziness. To this day, Jeff will watch me create the perfect bite of food, set it aside on the edge of my plate, and leave it until the end of breakfast/lunch/dinner/midday snack time. And every so often, that same adorable freckled hand will reach across to my plate, snatch a sweet potato fry, drag it across the table, and then he’ll ask, “Is this one OK to eat?”
My heart will skip a beat, fill to the brim with adoration, and I’ll reply, “Yes, sweetie. Thanks for loving my craziness.”