Dinner at Home

Amuse-Bouche n. A small complimentary appetizer offered at some restaurants, from the French meaning literally, “entertains the mouth” He wants the meal to be special, tantalizing, a prelude to the satisfaction of other appetites. He hopes it will symbolize his passion, his devotion, and his desire to nourish and care for—for all the rest of their days. He keeps it simple, knowing that’s how his beloved prefers it. No complicated French cuisine for his man! No tortured soufflés or sauces that must be timed perfectly lest they seize up, their texture and taste ruined. No, for his beloved, simplicity is key. In the kitchen as well as the bedroom. He knows that appealing to the basic appetites is the way to his heart and the most fulfilling. So what does he make? He builds their dinner around a classic: a roast chicken. Perhaps there is nothing in the world, save for the feel of his man’s arms around him as the two of them drift off to a weary and blissful sleep, more sublime than the simple roast chicken. He knows exactly how to enhance its flavors, to make the moist bird dance on the tongue of his beloved. First, he will salt and pepper the cavity, then stuff it with gently crushed cloves of garlic and a quartered lemon. He will loosen the skin covering the breast, and underneath this he will lay more garlic, fresh thyme, and rosemary, a little extra-virgin olive oil to hold it all together. He will take that same oil and rub the chicken lovingly all over with it, the flesh supple beneath his fingers. Salt, pepper, more rosemary and thyme, and finely minced garlic will be the final touches to this gift. After that, a hot oven, and enough time for the juices to run clear and the flesh to just lose its pinkness. He imagines his beloved’s lips as he takes the first bite of the chicken, moist with its juices. He pictures his man closing his eyes in pleasure, able to utter only the most eloquent of praises: mmmm. The rest of the meal will be a mix of the easy and the sublime. After all, the meal is a beginning, not an end. A full stomach leads to sleep, and sleep is not what he has in mind, at least not right away. So he will make a salad of arugula, oranges, and red onion, dressed with the juice of the orange, olive oil, and salt and pepper. Maybe, if he’s feeling the need for a flourish, he will top the salad with a few shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Or he will save his flourishes for the bedroom… He grins as he assembles the rest of the meal: the tiny, multicolored fingerling potatoes he will boil until just tender, then toss with sweet cream butter, sea salt, and a few grinds of the pepper mill; two heirloom tomatoes, one pink and the other yellow, cut into quarters, with only a little salt to make their juices rise, so their flavor is enhanced. Dessert? Fresh strawberries. These he has not given much thought to. But what he really wants to do with them is this: He will lift his beloved up on the kitchen counter, naked, spread his legs, and crush the berries into his man’s s*x. He will make sure that not one morsel of pulp and not one drop of juice lands anywhere else other than his mouth. He will continue to devour the berries until the flesh of his lover’s c**k is clean, shining only with his spit. And then… and then… well, what would berries be without a little cream? He smiles. He cannot wait for his lover to come…