Dinner At A Distance

     “I never understood why the hell people take pictures of their food and post it on twit/face/insta/space.  The shit just doesn’t make sense to me.  And how did you get that tasty steak?  I didn’t see it on the menu.”

     I had just taken a snapshot of a wagyu steak surrounded by creamed spinach and mashed potatoes.  It was covered in an almost caramelized au jus and complemented by a 9 ounce pour of Cabernet.  This was the last big dinner out before hibernation.  It had to be a good one.

     “All you have to do is ask.  Things readily available on the menu get boring.”

     “But seriously,” she said, “no one really cares what you had to eat for dinner.”

     “I understand that,” I said preparing to send the text.  “I do.  This isn’t for twit/face/insta/space.  This is for a specific list of people.”

     The knife almost fell through the tender centerpiece of the dinner.  I could feel my mouth watering as I swirled it in the small pool of au jus.  

     It was almost time for the hibernation.  All social media had been either disabled or completely deactivated.  It’s kind of hard to cleanse the mind and the soul if you are constantly trying to keep or follow up with the world around you.

     “List?” She asked.

     “Dinner at a Distance,” I said wiping the corner of my mouth with the napkin.

“Basically there are some people I would try to get together with at various times of the year.  It always seemed that no matter how early or how solid things seemed plans would get canceled or they would have something more important come up.

     “After the third or, in some cases, fourth raincheck I just stopped asking about when people wanted to hang out and sent pictures of me hanging out.  I understand that life gets in the way but at...”

     “I know.  I know.  But at some point you also make a conscious choice,” she said rolling her eyes.

     “Sooo,” I said swirling a bit more butter in the mashed potatoes, “You’ve heard me give this little speech before?”

     “Yes,” she said as her fork fell through her perfectly flaked salmon, “I just didn’t know you had named it.”

     I sent the image into the ether.

     “Do you need a little more whine to go with your dinner?”  Her question dripped with as much sarcasm as my steak dripped with au jus.

     I smiled as I realized something I already knew.  Most people don’t care about what they eat.  They care about who they eat it with.

     “You know what?  You’re right.  Thank you for taking time to hang out.  I feel like a dick.  You take the time to make the time and I spend it talking about those who don’t.  It’s a reminder to appreciate the people who appreciate you.” 

     “Baby steps,” she said.  “As far as those other folks, maybe it’s time you stop being that readily available thing on the menu.”