BY J
Dearest Diary,
I have spent the evening with a dear old friend, Carmella Sands-Fitzgerald. I feel it my civic duty to entertain this quirky, daft housewife on occasion. After all, she is poor and straight on top of it. She is always dragging me to pottery classes and what not. I haven't the heart to say no. When she called me for a fondue date, how was I to respond delicately? Can you see me handling raw meat?
At first, I felt silly. It seems the restaurant she had chosen was designed for lovers; all dark and romantic with candles casting sensual shadows everywhere. I'm sure the poor girl had no idea. I noticed she seemed embarrassed as she kept looking at me sideways and blinking oddly. I couldn't let her know how inappropriate the choice was, so I ignored all of the flame-lit faces staring hopelessly into one another's eyes and directed my attention to Aquileo, our attentive server. He was helpful explaining the process by which I was to choose and prepare my meal. Carmella, a little over zealous, decided to order, for both of us, their most bountiful meal selection, which was four courses.
The first course salad was limp and sparse leaving me a dry mass of spinster frigidity. While Aquileo did make us aware that the cheese fondue was prepared with brandy, I didn't expect it to have such an alcohol burn going down. Heavens, it was like boxed wine. Finally, our main course arrived. Delicate little nibblets of lobster tail, shrimp, scallop, chicken and beef tenderloin were arranged with mixed veggies and eight 'dipping' sauces straight from the farthest reaches of chain steakhouse mediocrity. I know, dear, it sounds like a complete disaster, but this is where things took a turn. I found something so empowering in being in charge of my own meal.
The inner pirate in me came to the surface as I wielded my forked sword forcing each trembling morsel to walk the plank into an oily demise. In this dreaded rage, I over-cooked half of my meal. Oddly, over-cooked doesn't seem so bad when you've only yourself to blame. It was a tad primal gnawing on crispy broccoli florets forgotten in their sea of fat as I tickled a tender scallop with hot oil dropped precisely on its most sacred parts. Which sauce does my unfortunate lover care to be buried in once rescued from the flames? Teriyaki? Horseradish? Maybe I'll try the traditional cocktail or BBQ. The dill and honey Dijon may get jealous if I leave them out. Perhaps I'll try all at once! Even at this moment, I can feel the power pulsing through my veins and all over again. I am conducting those fiery forks, sloshing through the tangy condiments of love. Cream-based bliss sprayed over my dainty Canterbury nightgown creating translucent windows of greasy heaven. I was on the road to complete culinary domination when I was distracted by Carmella's random head jerking and eye darting. I thought that she was having a seizure.
The chocolate fondue proved to be the perfect ending. The world was mine as I burned the life out of my plump, sticky marshmallow. Who can find fault in pound cake ruthlessly drowned in chocolate? All in all Geja's wins all of its Muffy love for atmosphere and experience. Although the main course was very high-quality meat and seafood, it was no masterpiece of culinary design. Still, I would re-visit that dark basement of love at 340 W. Armitage, Chicago.
Where else can you become a fascist dictator of food for an evening?
I still haven't figured out what was wrong with Carmella. Perhaps it was an allergic reaction. Pondering this, I will close for the evening.
— Muffaletta Vanderdyke
Dear Bob,
I am leaving you. I have been secretly in love with someone else for years. Finally, I am certain that the feelings are returned. I planned and executed a romantic evening for us to test our feelings for one another. I gazed with bedroom eyes and suavely indicated my lust through subtle gestures. I could see the effect I had as my love became violent with lust for me, making love to me through our intense consumption of hot meats.
Do not bother trying to change my mind. I am moving on and Muffy will be mine!
— Carmie
