Seemingly forever ago, I had some friends who used to host Speed Dating nights and one of the nights they found the women to men ratio was way off, so I agreed to come and participate.  I thought, what the hell, why not?

Turns out I ended up making somewhat of a connection with one of the guys, and we arranged to set up a second date under more “normal” circumstances to get to know each other better.  The second date went well, and in the course of the conversation he mentioned how he loves to cook.  What a coincidence, I said, I love to eat!  He suggested that for our next date, he’d love to cook me dinner and asked me what my favorite cultural food was.  At the time, I was on a Greek food kick, so he agreed and we set a date.

I arrived at his building and took the elevator up to the top floor.  I got the tour of his penthouse apartment, and the stunning views of downtown Vancouver from his 500 square foot patio.  It was fantastic.

Then he tells me that he hopes I like what he’s cooked for dinner, and I replied that I love pretty much all food, with the exception of spinach.  As soon as I said it, his face froze and a look of panic came over him.  Oh shit.  When he said he had indeed cooked spinach, I felt like an ass and tried to reassure him that well, really, I hadn’t eaten spinach since I was a kid, so I am totally game to try it and see if I like it now.  He started to look a bit relieved.  As long as it wasn’t that horrible mushy frozen stuff, I said.  Another look from him, this time an even deeper look of panic.  Oh shit.

Turns out that dinner was fantastic, and to my surprise I had acquired a taste for spinach since I’d eaten it last, even if it was that mushy frozen kind.  And luckily the taste of my own foot in my mouth didn’t ruin dinner, or the company.

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