Lunch, Italian Style

Late this afternoon, CoTU was leaving for a dinner-meeting, but stopped in the kitchen for an Alka-Seltzer to settle his stomach, which could have been rebelling about that massive plate of spaghetti Bolognese he downed for lunch, not that I’m criticizing. Oh yes, we met from opposite directions where we had separate morning commitments, to share a little lunch at this relatively new Italian place some friends had recommended.


This was not exactly in keeping with my current diet regimen, but I can’t keep refusing him every time he wants to eat out. He’s been very understanding, as I continually lobby for letting me fix us lunches and dinners at home, so I can stick to my diet. Today he called me when he left his meeting, and I was leaving mine. He sounded so plaintive, I figured I could lean into it and find the closest thing to legal they had to offer.

The place was attractive. High ceilings, spare decoration, good lighting. Kind of Tuscan colors and fixtures.  They had an interesting way of serving water, with the skinniest glasses I’ve ever seen, and a carafe on the table. We waited a long time for our lunches, and they were big, piping hot, and tasty. I ate about 30% of mine, CoTU finished his. And the bread. I said not a word. I am not here to criticize. I am here to judge.

And so we came home in our separate cars, and went back to work in our separate rooms, and I got ready to leave town tomorrow for a weekend retreat. At least, that’s what I’m telling him. No, really, it’s a retreat. Or not.

I did a lot of cooking, to take dinner to a friend’s house, and to leave some edibles in the fridge for CoTU. When he stopped in the kitchen for his Alka-Seltzer, remarking about his gastric discomfort, he complimented the aromas and the colorful array of the elements of my soon-to-be-mobile dinner delivery. Then he spotted the brownies. I had cut up the whole batch, and artfully arranged all but two of them on a doily-covered plate. He asked, like an expectant puppy dog, if those last two in the pan were for him. I confirmed that they were.

And then, my friends, I witnessed a remarkable feat. An act of uncommon optimism and expectation. The man swallowed two brownies in no time at all, and washed ‘em down with an Alka-Seltzer chaser.

And there you have it—another reason men do not live as long as women.