I’m an “eat dessert first” sort of person.
Not that I actually do it. I guess I mean I’m the type to check out the dessert menu at dinner before perusing the actual entrees. Like any self-respecting 3-year-old, I would much rather sink into a bowl of ice cream than eat a piece of chicken — and if it comes down to choosing a “light” meal over a heavier one so I can have a slice of cake afterward, you know I’m going to do it.
Or, you know. I’ll eat the heavy meal and the cake. I’m still a work in progress.
My boyfriend and I were out Wednesday night to celebrate our second anniversary. It’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other two years and very hard to believe we’ve known each other two years. Our relationship has been one long conversation — the highs and lows; the dips and turns — and I don’t feel we’ve ever really stopped talking.
How is it, then, that I’m still learning so many new things about him? New and funny things? Cute and silly things? After 730 days together, we still have “getting to know you” conversations. They’re deeper than they were at first — more comfortable, easier — but still there. That flutter of excitement at learning a new “secret.”
It makes me think about how well we know other people. The sides and shades we see; the moments we choose to share. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll reach a point when I can look at Spencer, shrug and say, “Well, you know all my stories.” And actually mean it.
I hope not.
But back to dessert. The place we chose is a local haunt known more for its bar than dinners, but I hadn’t been in years — and remembered they had an excellent creme brûlée. The memory of that luscious vanilla creme, tart blackberry and crusty crystallized sugar has never left me — and I was determined that, if we were going, I would reunite with that dessert again.
There was a moment of panic when I didn’t immediately spot the creme brûlée on the menu. I flicked through the pages, scanning each item with disinterest. Without the promise of that memorable dessert, nothing captured my attention. It wouldn’t be the heart-stopping meal I craved.
But then I saw it: not just a creme brûlée but a sampler, complete with vanilla, raspberry and chocolate versions. Top of the menu (right in front of my face, of course). Dinner was good, but I was desperate to move on to the next course.
It didn’t disappoint.
We talked over the creme brûlée, sharing little bites as I sampled Spencer’s bread pudding. Walking back to the house hand in hand, we laughed about how I saw something about a “dessert flight” online — a sampler of every dessert a restaurant offers — and how I would take that over a “beer flight” any day.
I’m not much of a drinker, but I can roll with some whipped cream and cake.
And he indulges me. I’m a lucky girl.