Last night, Mr Moi and I went out to dinner. On a DATE.
The last time we went out for an intimate meal was when we were on a whirlwind trip to Brisbane about a month ago. I spent the weekend rushing around to see as many friends as possible. Mr Moi spent the weekend curled up in bed, dosed on antibiotics, fighting off a sinus infection.
On that occasion, my mother offered to babysit while we had lunch. She got the Sprog to work in the garden, and in hindsight, we probably should have stayed home and done the same, because the lunch was NOT FUN AT ALL. The conversation was stilted and we were both incredibly tired and grumpy from the shitty four-hour flight to Brisbane during single digit AM hours. Low single digit AM hours. (And ditto that timestamp for the flight home). Not to mention that the food (two courses!), being all posh posh and minimalist, did not fill the gap.
Last night, however, I was in a chatty mood thanks to the oral lubricant of a glass of wine before leaving being slightly buzzed up from a productive and slightly aggro day at work. That always makes me a little bit excited. And a bit of aggro puts me in super-animated-bitchy-gossip mood, what is like, my favourite mood to ever be in! I was TOTALLY in the mood for an intimate dinner out!
While I was dining on my starter of Ras el Hanout seasoned quail, and sipping on my mojito, I enjoyed the free flowing conversation that rarely touched on the only thing most people would think Mr Moi and I have in common – the Sproglette.
Instead, we sat on the terrace in the 28 degrees-and-breezy Darwin weather, gossiping about work, talking about life in Darwin (constantly in a pendulum love/hate swing), sharing news about our extended family members.
(The one thing we didn’t talk about was the service… because there wasn’t any!) The meals were slow to come, despite the attentive waiter, but there weren’t even any awkward silences filled with me reminding myself to buy nappies.
While I chowed down my main (which was served at a time I would usually be turning down my doona and switching on the aircon to justify using the doona) of pork belly on nam jim (with delicious crackling, might I add), I was sipping on my pinot grigio when I had a really random thought.
Of course the dynamic of a dinner out is much different to a dinner at home, not least because someone is saved from sweating buckets as a result of slaving over a hot stove.
I find food has such a transportative effect – a familiar taste can send me five years into the past. An aroma can make me remember nothing but a feeling of joy/despair/happiness – whatever I was feeling when I last smelled that smell.
It struck me that, in fact, while I was sitting only a metre from Mr Moi, we didn’t even have the same FOOD in common. And yet we were still having an enjoyable, unforced, carefree, reminiscent-of-singledom conversation.
I savoured the moment. (Literally. A moment).
And then I looked at my watch and realised my lovely babysitter was doing us such a favour on a school night. So we finished our mains, smacked our lips, and re-entered the night in unison to fall asleep into bed with contented tummies and a smile on our dial.
Only to be woken at midnight by a screaming Sproglette who was shitscared when the neighbours set of fireworks.