Foood

I told of a dinner at a fancy restaurant that I went to with my family and grandparents in the Kenyon Inn.  I remember staring at the menu and not knowing how to pronounce half of the words and ingredients.  I just pointed to the chicken dinner I wanted when the waitor came around to get our order.  He prounounced the two words as he wrote them down and I swore he wasn't speaking a real language.  The waitor brought out a platter of side salads for all of us and I felt like a rabbit, eating all of these crisp, bright green vegetables.  Our conversation banter quickly came to an end as we saw our food being brought out on beautifully white plates.  Immediately I noticed how small the portion of food was and started planning out what I was going to eat when we got home.  We all began eating and everyone exclaimed how theirs was the best, even though mine of course was the most delicious. I forced myself to eat slow, savoring each bite and to participate in the dinner conversation with my grandparents.  Although I had self-prepared to be hungry after finishing my plate, surprisingly I was quite full. 

He told of a dinner that was a typical Monday night, "Pasta Monday".  His mom made a pasta dinner every Monday.  He told about the three ingredients to his mother's delicioius dish.  Specifically she used linguini noodles and a certain pasta sauce.  He spoke of this ritual every Monday very fondly.  He asked me questions to see if I knew what kind of pasta he was referring to.  So that I could recall and know what tastes he was talking about.