My Inner Chef ...

I love food. Over the years, I've toyed with the idea of becoming a chef. But two days in a professional kitchen years ago quickly taught me that the chef's life is not for me. It's too harried. It's too "good enough." I don't like "good enough." I like "as good as I can possibly make it." I prefer "perfect," but sometimes "perfect" gets in the way.

So I content myself with having friends over for dinner, planning menus, shopping, prepping, cooking, serving. I derive great joy out of feeding those I love. There is little I enjoy more than watching someone savor something I've made.

And the experience is even better when the person I love is someone I haven't seen in far too long.

And so it was with tonight's guest, Brian. Nearly five hours of grazing and sipping and eating and resting and eating and sipping.

Oh, yes, and catching each other up on the past couple years of our lives.

What's that? The menu?

We noshed on shavings of Parmesan and toasted walnuts and red grapes, little tastes. A small platter of little tastes. Which we finished.

The entree was linguine with white clam sauce, because I'd had a taste for it, and a guest provides a good excuse to prepare it.

After a rest, dessert was sea salt-caramel gelato (I'm in love with it) and dark chocolate-espresso biscotti and coffee. Brian is a grown up. He takes his black.

I'm sure we could have talked for much longer. Coffee and biscotti could have sustained us. Alas, he had to leave.

So now, later, the dishes are done and bed is calling.

Tomorrow, pasta for breakfast. Because it's even better reheated the next day.