Dinner With TCR.

It’s a beautiful Spring evening. The light exits stage west, the baby-pink-and-blue sky fades to gray, the new leaves tremble in a cool breeze. An occasional car hisses past, the swell of it’s passing taking bits of me away on a Doppler ride into the nascent night.

Tonight’s feature is Chicken Alone, an amalgam of Middle Eastern Marinade and deep longing, with the gas grill blustering and billowing savory smoke as I spoon on a mixture of marinated garlic and Extra Virgin olive oil. Bursts of flame rise into the deepening night like prayer flags fluttering in a futile wind, and I quickly close the lid, marrying the memories and the marinade ’till the juices run clear and sweet.

Mere minutes later, a mountain of baby spinach is heaped on top; yes, I’m grilling spinach, and a small jar of roasted red peppers, juice and all, and the rest of the marinade, the lot of them protesting the flames even as they soften, become tender, become one.

I used to live for the sharing of these meals, the shudder of pleasure as the first mouthful hit its mark, eyes closing, neck elongating to slowly swallow my offering, a low moan attesting to the rightness of it all.

Tonight, in the stillness of night, at a table for one, it needs just a subtle, simple something…

A spritz of salt falls from my lower lashes,

And Dinner is Served.

Enjoy.