Brad and I typically dine out on New Year's Eve and, in an attempt to add some class and culture to our lives, pick the fanciest place in town. The Valley Inn of Warsaw is set in a Civil War era home in the village and serves up the best She-crab soup I've ever tasted despite visits to Charleston and Savannah. One does not wear sweatpants to The Valley Inn. Believe me, I've tried and my husband always makes me change. Shouldn't he love me just the way I am? Maybe he hasn't heard that Bruno Mars song..."if perfect's what you're searching for then just stay the same." So I slapped on my most sophisticated piece of jewelry (my sparkly dachshund necklace), switched out my thermal socks for (say the following with a snooty accent, please:) trouser socks..."Thank goodness," Brad sighed with relief, "Did your four readers hear about your Christmas Eve wardrobe malfunction?" (http://amyafterthefact.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-christmas-eve-fashion-trend-merry.html) "I have five followers," I snapped, "and I'm sure they've all committed that particular blog to memory."...and wore an attractive but slightly over-sized blouse to prevent any inadvertent back-fat sightings as the chairs tend to feature somewhat revealing support slats.
Our brief wait in the Inn's foyer gives us a chance to review all of the owner's/head chef's impressive culinary awards but not enough time to sneak up the staircase to check out the second floor. Every year, the waitress arrives just as I've worked up the courage to tip-toe my way past the first landing. We were escorted to an intimate little alcove where, it was believed, that I would cause the least amount of embarrassment and/or damage. The alcove is always an interesting scenario in a restaurant. Either everyone works hard to pretend that the other diners don't exist, causing an uncomfortable and self-conscious eating environment OR the patrons bond, forming culinary alliances that bridge politics and religion ("And, apparently, the good manners that normally prevent people from sampling food from a patron's plate," Brad remarked, frowning at the memory. "She offered!" I protested, defending my actions for the zillionth time since that evening.
To bid adieu to the old year and hello to the new, I fearlessly ordered the coconut-crusted duck for an appetizer. I bravely ate one bite before switching with Brad to consume his She-crab soup. "Yeah, that was a courageous move," my husband recalled. The salads were exquisite...I heart pine nuts and who can resist a warm vinaigrette? "I've served warm vinaigrette," I told Brad. "Luke-warm," he corrected, "and forgetting to refrigerate salad dressing doesn't count except that we're lucky to not require hospitalization." My humming attracted the attention of the diner behind me. "What is that song," he asked, obviously entranced by both my extraordinary humming skills as well as my shapely, appropriately-covered back as viewed through the chair slats. "It's Bruno Mars," I told him, glancing meaningfully at my husband, "Just the way you are."
Our entrees arrived. Shouldn't twin lobster tails be accompanied by twin vats of melted butter? I rectified the situation by sneaking Brad's butter off his plate as he eyed up the Mahi Mahi at the next table.
"Interesting technique you have there, for eating lobster," my husband commented, easily cutting his tender prime rib, "It's not corn-on-the-cob, you know."
I frowned. "This isn't Flashdance, you know."
"She was eating crab legs," Brad pointed out as he handed me his napkin to sop some of the dripping butter off my face, "Is this your version of a seduction scene?"
"Not anymore," I snapped, peevishly refusing to order dessert to punish him.
As our romantic evening drew to a close, a Willy Wonka chocolate cake arrived at my neighbor's (the song-lover) table. Having observed my husband's insensitive behavior, the wife kindly offered me a sample. "She didn't think you'd actually do it," Brad snarled, as we walked out to our vehicle. "I don't know why you wouldn't have warmed up the van," I complained as he opened my door for me. I heard him humming as he scraped the ice from the windshield. "What is that," I asked, after he'd removed all the snow from the roof and windows. "It's Bruno Mars's Grenade," Brad shared, singing the beginning for me, "Take, take, take it all, but you never give..." I sighed. He just doesn't get me. Oh well...maybe next year.
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