The night we got engaged, we were taught how to eat in courses. One, two, three, four. Then raspberries dusted in sugar for dessert. We sat in the private room, the one he had requested. White linens and clear glasses, a fire in the hearth and walls shelved with books. I remember the yellow roses, the sparkling champagne.
I've been struggling to sleep this past week, and I blame it on the moon. It's an almost-winter moon, full and bright. The silver light floods past the thinning tree branches and through our bedroom window, illuminating the folds of the patterned bedspread and the dark curves of the fan in the corner. I lay in bed last night watching shadows and thinking of that meal.
Another day, a completely different day, we ate another meal, course by course. It was a highlight to our trip abroad. A splurge on a three-star-michelin meal, six courses total--though dessert seemed to fall like the tide, wave upon wave upon wave, and we lost count of plates and glasses of wine by the end. I remember the walk back to our beds, dazed by four hours of rich flavors, we walked quickly through the dark alleys shivering happily, the edges of our vision blurred by that final glass of prosecco.
Every time someone asks us where we would like to travel next, we are unanimous in our response. "We like water," we say, "Water or mountains. But mostly water. Take us anywhere with a coast." But then of course we must pause, "Food too," we add, almost embarrassed that we had neglected to list it first. "Food is the most important." Which it is and it isn't.
(But really it is).