Dying for Dinner

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Brave words, yes? I actually might have believed them if as I was speaking, my voice didn’t waver and my knees didn’t knock together like castanets in a flamenco frenzy.

In an effort to calm myself, I took a deep breath and a long look around. Now that I’d finished checking in our latest batch of cooking students and they’d headed into the kitchen for week number one of Cool Gadgets = Hot Dinners, I was alone in Bellywasher’s. It was a Monday night, the restaurant was closed, and, always on the lookout for ways to control skyrocketing costs, I’d turned out every light but the one over the bar. The quiet didn’t bother me. Neither did the dark, or the play of shadows against the walls with their painted border of thistles. My gaze glanced over pictures of Scotland, Grandpa Banner-man’s walking stick (hung in a place of honor), a kilt, and an autographed photo of Mel Gibson, his face painted blue. The familiarity of the place and the funky, eclectic objects that filled it warmed me through and through. For the first time since I’d walked into the pub, I managed a smile.

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