Veal

or my exaggerated notes of a drunken speech to Eleni on the popular rules of dating, delivered after a horrible meal of chicken nachos washed down by two delicious margaritas.

You have been invited to a dinner party by a gracious hostess known for her meticulously planned events. The table is laid out for a perfect number of guests, some known to each other, but some not. They are of the right age, the right social class and the right male/female balance. It is an evening of so much promise.

By some means, you have discovered that the main dish of the evening will be veal.

Veal makes your mouth water.
Veal makes you weak in the knees.
Veal tickles your tummy with pleasure.

In short, you *love* veal.

Now, you *could* lean over to the hostess and tell the her that you enjoy veal so much that you would like it served first. Warum nicht?

The hostess will, no doubt, swallow her disapproval, maybe fingering the collar of her simple but chic dress or that flattering necklace that her husband gave her just last Christmas. She will politely explain, as if to a child, there is an order to these things...

No no, you argue. The body cares little for the order of things. The body knows nothing of butternut squash soup lightly blessed with ginger and a dash of lime, nor of arugula tossed with slices of fennel, shavings of Parmesan and the thrust of fresh cracked pepper.

Of this foreplay of the senses, the body cares not a whit. The body speaks a simple language of fat, carbohydrates and proteins.

Yes, you could argue that.

But as you insist upon it, your voice no longer tempered by soft inquiry but passionately-alive with what you know of your truth, you'll look madly around the table for your allies. You know they want the veal too.

But, mmmm, they murmur with their eyes avoiding yours, what a delicious soup!