Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned against you.
I saw the white tablecloths and sensed the pretense in the air as we walked in; and yet we ignored our shared knowing glances, and did not turn on our Birkenstocked heels and go elsewhere.
As our Teutonic waiter rattled off the choice appetizers, I pushed back my virtuous guidelines for my health and yours, and ordered the foie gras, pan-seared with capers and wild huckleberries instead. I delighted in every bite, each little toast yielding to my knife, and perfectly complementing the Alsatian wine. Likewise, my intention of eating just an appetizer failed me when I saw the veal cutlet in morel sauce at the next table.
I admit to delight in cruelly toying with the waiter, asking him to split the entrée between us, and purposely confusing him by asking for my salad after the main course. I fear too much pride in my voice when I note that I did not retaliate against the raw onions in said salad.
Yea, I should have settled the exorbitant tab and walked away before dessert, but I succumbed to the chocolate decadence. Technically, my Darling Husband did, but I am equally guilty, as I shared the silken slice and three out-of-season raspberries.
My penance shall be the bathroom scale, pulsing sinus cavities and a guilty conscience. I shall recite “local and organic” 20 times as I turn the compost heap.
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