Eating alone

Eastside Road, August 1, 2011—

I CAN'T RECALL WHEN I was last alone at dinner. Last August, I suppose, when I was hospitalized for a few days. Does that count? Probably not.

But tonight L.'s at a ball game with the girls, and I knew better than to horn in. So I drove in to town to shop a little. Arugula was on my mind; I haven't had a nice plate of arugula for two months. But the store I went to didn't have any. Well, then, what the hell, I thought: I'll buy a can of spinach.

I dearly love canned spinach. The love of canned spinach is one of my few endearing qualities. I mean, how many people like canned spinach, let alone mention it? But the flavor's one of my favorites, and I very very rarely get to taste it; it seems no one else is interested. The perfect thing for bachelor dinner night.

But then I thought, gee, maybe canned spinach isn't really good for me. Who knows what they may put in there. And there were these cute little bunches of organic fresh spinach, and they cost less. So I took one home, rinsed half of it, and steamed it in a little water just long enough to warm it — and, in the process, render it nearly invisible: I'd forgotten how spinach cooks down to nothing.

With it, the last of those penne from yesterday and, before yesterday, Thursday; and a slice of ciabatta, toasted, rubbed with garlic, drizzled with olive oil, and salted. Dessert? Why not another piece of ciabatta, toasted, rubbed with garlic, drizzled with olive oil, and salted?

Aglianico, Epicuro, 2008