The feast of fat things

So I was in Provo this last weekend for a storytelling conference/workshop.

On Friday I met up with Cicada, her MAN, Squirrel Boy, Brinestone, Ambrosia, Bawb, and DP, who does not have a blog but does feature in other people's. It was kind of an reunion in that we all used to work like galley slaves at the same place together and now none of us have t--I mean, none of us get to work there anymore. We had dinner at The Mandarin in Bountiful. Two words: Crab and Cream Cheese Won Tons with Lemon Sauce. Those things were fabulous, and the rest of our meal was great. Also the hostesses wore really cute tops and I need to find out where they got them.

The next night I had dinner at the Bombay House in Provo and ate until I could hardly move. We had Rogan josh, chicken coconut kurma, tandoori chicken, mango lassi, garlic and potato naan. Savvy did really well until Jenny told her she was eating baby lambs.

On Sunday I hauled out my two takeout boxes from the previous nights, filled with heavenly things. Jenny and I dug in and asked my b-in-law if he would like some. He has a thing about leftovers that I've never really understood. Like, he'll eat leftovers at his house, but he'll never touch stuff that people bring home from restaurants. Only then he told me this:

At mealtimes his younger brothers and sisters were really messy, gross eaters, with runny noses and drool and all of that. At the end of every meal his mother would pick up all their plates and scrape them back into the big pot and then serve that food again as leftovers. And he has never been able to get over that.

That pretty much killed my appetite there, so it was a good thing I'd nearly finished eating. I assured him that the food I brought home had come directly from serving dishes and had never touched anyone's personal plate or utensils, but you know what? I don't blame him. I wouldn't be able to get over that either.