I have this fantasy: A waiter (can be Matt Damon, or not, whatever) brings my dinner to my hotel room. He lays the shiny silver platters down, and pours the wine. And then, I eat it. Alone. That's it, basically. I eat my meal in silence, savouring each bite, sipping a nice glass of red, perhaps gazing out the window at an amazing view, with nothing and no one to distract me.
During the fantasy meal, I don't almost gag on my food from talking too much about why someone should eat their dinner, or why they shouldn't stir their chicken into their yoghurt, or get up fifteen times to get kitchen towel, ketchup and other things from the kitchen.
I'm pretty sure my fantasies used to be much wilder and involve things like sex with movie stars and running away to ride bengal tigers in India. Now, they're about dinner for one. Plain and simple. Not too often, but once in a while would be nice.
See, I like food. A lot. And I put a lot of love into my dinners. Even if the rest of the house has gone to hell, there'll still be a good meal on the table at the end of the day. The problem is, I don't get to enjoy it - really enjoy it, very often. I'm too busy keeping things in check to appreciate the actual flavours of the dish I spent ages preparing.
So, tonight, when J arrived home from work, I let him go and be with the kids during the post-melt-down moment that usually happens around that time of the evening. And instead of, as usual, waiting to eat my dinner with him, I grabbed my plate and selfishly ate it in the lovely peace of the dining room. Just me, my dinner and I.
It was a beautiful, beautiful thing.
What's your unlikely fantasy?
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