LET US EAT
And I'm adept enough at reading the signals that I knew she was keenly interested in my hot old dessicated corpse. Adds a new dimension to the concept of 'jumping them bones'.
Except it stood NO chance of happening.
I may be single, but I have restraint. And some common sense.
At fifty-three years of age I am not a teenager.
I cannot get involved with a busty Vegan.
Now, concerned friends may criticize, saying "for crap sakes, man, you're a somewhat presentable fifty three year old AND superficially rather dashing, stop limiting yourself by being so damn picky and blinkered! So what if she's got crazy ideas about food! Find something else about her to like! We're sick and tired of not being able to invite you out on couple's night!"
Or something like that.
But food, you must understand, is the great social lubricant. And if nothing else a deep and abidingly intriguing subject for conversation. In that regard it is often far better than pipes and tobacco, Talmudica, and the history of the late mediaeval Netherlandish butterfly.
Imagine, if you will please make the effort, that I am on a date with a brilliant petite bio-chemist, who has excess IQ points coming out of her ears, reads Sartre for giggles, and does the Sudoku in ten seconds flat. She's cute, thoughtful, and super intelligent. We may have zip-diddly in common, and I'm withering inside from her sheer adorable genius.
Then I mention roast duck.
"Oh I just LOVE roast duck", she will exclaim, "do you prefer it from Gourmet Delight (新凱豐燒臘店) on Stockton, or from Kam Po (港新寶燒腊小食), near the tunnel?" And mere fractions of a second later we are deeply, intensely, animatedly, in conversation.
Within minutes, one of us will suggest "let's go eat... RIGHT NOW!"
Before you know it, it's several months later and we have discovered an enormous range of interesting facets we either have in common or in contrast. Despite my knowing nothing about astro-physics, that French scribbler, and the numbers game.
Aside from the obvious problems, discussing food with a Vegan might be impossible. In addition to culinary rigor mortis, she assuredly also has mental bugs that get her upset over eating anything that originated in the animal kingdom. Even cheese. Now, if she was merely lactose intolerant, that would not be much of an issue. There are substitutes, and I can always refrain from consuming VAST quantities of fromage in her presence lest it make her envious.
But man is by nature meant to be omnivorous. The question you should ask yourself upon seeing a new creature is "is it edible?"
And usually, if the beast is mostly or entirely vegetarian in its diet, the answer is "yes".
Vegans are completely the exception.
Not edible, despite vegetarianismus.
I like women. I like food.
Despite her size, I could only wonder how that busty Vegan had managed to grow so big. Had she mainlined protein supplements? Did she eschew animals and hunt man? Was she, in secret, a member of some twisted coterie of beandip snarfers? And besides the Veganismus, what else was wrong or missing?
What on earth would dinner together be like? Probably an insufferable exercise in self-righteousness, wailing, and bizarre haranguing.
Rather than the joy-filled flight of chopsticks and flashing forks it is meant to be. Everything I cook is wrong, and I should use sustainably green safflower oil to slow-seethe tofu to the hardened plank stage, with no fishpaste, no garlic and ginger, NO MEAT ELEMENTS WHATSOEVER!
It's amazing what you can do with raw cattle feed.
Spiritually uplifting, too.
A meal together without sharing food is romantically a waste of time, and the alternative is purging Roman Orgy-style afterwards, followed by gorging on multiple bacon cheeseburgers somewhere else. While trying to scrub the green planet kittens and Bambi's mother twaddle from your mind with alcohol.
Anyway, she's new to the city, working as a chef and going to culinary school. She loves it here, it's SO different than Maine or Upstate, where she's from, she drove across country huffing American Spirit cigarettes, drinking Starbucks, and sleeping in the desert with scorpions, and her sign is one of twelve.
We did not exchange phone numbers.
I would've been utterly wrong for her.
She seemed like a nice girl.
I wish her well.
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