Thursday, November 21, 2002

Dinner At The Deerfield Inn

High culture. A 7$ glass of dry and delicious white wine; partridge; wild mushrooms; shrimp bisque. Sorbet between courses.

Cranberry sorbet.


Eating out with the baby is always a crapshoot. Sure, people come over and coo, which is very ego-serving, but there's always the possibility that the baby will start wailing for no apparent reason and never stop. It's kind of like eating supper with a time bomb whose LED readout has run out of batteries. You're always on the balls of your feet. Here, is she done with the ladybug? I have a rattle, a glowstick, and a stuffed bear...ooh, get that, it's running down your shirt. The only other place I can think of where this same conversation might take place is a rave. Maybe.

If you're not a parent, then you have no idea what a shift in social status and approachability a baby brings in the company of strangers. If you have a cute dog, like we do, then you are at least familiar with the immediate intimacy of some previously unknowns, but the-baby-as-conversation-starter phenomenon goes eons farther. I now know more about the four year old daughter (Grace) of the waitress (name unknown) than I could ever need, and enjoyed a long conversation with an elderly couple from Albany when they stopped at our table to let us know how cute our daughter is, and look, she's awake! She can hold my finger, yes, there's a smile. Nice people, but it sort of disrupts the premise of the "quiet dinner out at a nice place for once."

The mind is a funny thing. I remember Albany and Grace, yet I have already forgotten the essential details (name, vintage, winery) of a wine I rather enjoyed and would order again, although I hardly drink, and when I do I prefer a good Pale Ale. Oh well. Probably no great loss. Beer goes bad in my refrigerator; a twelve-bottle wine rack on the same fridge contains only two empty bottles of wine and a single, still-corked bottle of dusty mauve stuff probably purchased for guests who never showed.

Random thought: The odd thing about starting a blog at two months shy of 30 is that the substance of my adolescence may be forever lost to history. Likely it will be read between the lines, in fits and starts across this stage.

posted by boyhowdy | 10:17 PM |

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