Your Cheatin' Tastebuds

The Carnivore came home on Tuesday and told me he had done a service call at Farm 255, probably the only restaurant in town that I would really like to eat at right now. The food is locally and organically grown, and only seasonal food is served at the restaurant. Whenever The Carnivore is over there, he picks up a copy of the menu for me so I can see the inventive dishes they have created from what is currently available from The Full Moon Co-Op, a local CSA research farm. The challenge of serving only the foods that are locally available this time of year really appeals to me. And after reading Joan Dye Gussow's This Organic Life last summer, I am hoping to someday follow the same philosophy with our own meals.

The Carnivore handed me the latest menu for my perusal, and said the chef had been making molten cakes while he was there (deep sigh from me).

"She let me lick the spatula," he said, knowing I would be jealous that I didn't get any of it.

I was unable to let this opportunity pass me by. I put my hands on my hips, and jutted out my chin. "You licked another woman's spatula?"

The Carnivore looked at me uncertainly, not sure whether I was serious or not. Finally, to hedge his bets I assume, he replied, "But you're the woman I come home to every night."

I picked up my one ancient, too short wooden spoon and waved it at him. "This is the only spoon you should be out lickin'!"

I must have laid it on pretty thick. The Carnivore, a man who has never bought me flowers and who rarely thinks to buy me gifts, came home on Wednesday with a bag from The Rolling Pin in his hands. Heh heh. I am now the proud owner of a heavy, perfectly shaped stainless steel set of measuring spoons (to replace the ones Odd Toddler has run off with) and a gorgeous long-handled wooden spoon.