Living on a farm is busy; so busy, in fact, that getting away from the homestead proves difficult. Besides playing tennis, or running to Tractor Supply, you can usually find us out in the barn or fields.
I love to cook and never tire of the endless possibilities of what I can create with what is growing right outside my door, but I am human, so going out to dinner every now and then is nice. If nothing else, it gives me a good reason to attempt to get the dirt out from underneath my nails.
This past week Steve suggested we make reservations at our favorite restaurant, Juniper, because a lot of Happy Earth Farm fare was featured on their menu. I looked forward to going out for days. Thursday night I soaked my feet in a bath of coconut oil, then put on bright pink toenail polish in anticipation of wearing high- heeled sandals. On Friday I scrubbed layers of earth off my arms, legs and face. I powdered and primped. Date night was upon me; I agonized over which sundress would look best with my pretty toes.
With all of the birds tucked in for the night, we headed out; looking fabulous I might add. We arrived at dinner and said our hellos to the staff as we made our way to our romantic candlelit table. We ordered a bottle of wine and I sat back to enjoy what I was certain was going to be a relaxing evening out with my best fella. How wrong I was proven to be.
Steve couldn’t help himself; all he did was try to listen to the other tables as they ordered. He craned his neck to sneak a peak as the waiter brought the other guests their meals. I could have been a potted plant for all he cared. He was hell-bent on keeping a running total of how many people were ordering the menu items from our farm. He looked like a crazy stalker! And when the other customers ordered something other than our stuff he would look at me and exclaim, “see that table by the window? They didn’t order the eggplant parmesan…they’re dead to me!” And if they did order an entre that featured something from us, he did a running commentary of how satisfied they appeared to be and whether or not they finished everything on their plate.
So no, there was no relaxed, romantic dinner conversation at table 8, just a creeper who eyed every table suspiciously and eavesdropped on everyone else’s dinner banter hoping to hear a comment about their food. The highlight for Steve that evening, you wonder? No, it was not my pretty pink toes, my bright yellow sundress or my fabulous high heels. It was when a restaurant guest approached our table to tell us that the eggplant in the parmesan dish was the best that he has ever had.
Now those were the sweet nothings my man was looking to hear.