Last night was a time crunch. Leave work to go by the local running store and talk about what we do here at my place of business as far as fixing people and such. Meet my running partner at 7:00 on the dot to get some miles in and then meet the beau who is to be serving dinner at 8:30. You see, I do this thing where I plan my time as if everything will work like clockwork right down to the minute. My clock apparently struggles at keeping time.
7:06 I steal away from the meeting and change into my running clothes. They understand.
7:19 My running partner who had been peeping through the windows earlier has vanished into the night.
Cue my panic.
Is he coming back? Do I have to run alone now? But it's raining and dark and I'm a lone female in the world. Ok, not lone. I'm not that dramatic. But really... what am I going to do, I'm already off on my plans by 20 minutes and and and...
7:20 "Here he comes to save the day!" and off we go up the hill I hate and onto the sidewalks I equally despise. But at least I'm running. I'll forewarn you, I never said this love affair was always butterflies and rainbows and puppy breath licking your nose. We pass a high school track meet and I'm straining my neck trying to figure it all out. Is that the 3200? Who's winning? And selfishly, would I have beat them back in the day?
The rain starts sweet and innocent, cooling me down from the fresh hot heat of finally moving my body after hours of being relatively sedentary. But then it starts to pelt my face and streak through my eyelashes and blur my vision. We get after it for a bit once we've warmed up and the conversation is flowing... adamantly professing our frustrations and our excitement and the stories of our lives. We round out the run playing frogger with the cars at a busy shopping center. We stop the watch and we walk it in - squeezing ourselves under the small awnings to stretch.
Or should I say, "stretch." My idea of stretching, much to my boss' dismay, is leaning over touching my toes for a few seconds and moving right along. People like me are job security for him. I now have 0 minutes to get anywhere close to presentable so I just head over to eat.
It is very rare that I walk in the door to that house and I don't smell something amazing going on in the kitchen. Pat the dog, grab a quick kiss, and change into my dry work clothes - inside out of course because I'm in such a hurry to figure out what will soon be in my belly.
This is the good part. There are fried pickle spears in the deep fryer (how did I miss those when I got that kiss?) and other goodies leaving all burners on the stove occupied. The fried pickles were amazing to me but not as crunchy as the chef had hoped.
And then he broke out the square plates...
Rutabaga puree with maple. Carrots pureed and mixed with yogurt and raisins. Pork tenderloin lovingly flattened out and spiced up with some s/p and fresh sage and layered with provolone and prosciutto. Plated nicely and all dressed up with some kind of roux drizzled on top.
There is nothing better than sitting down to a mouthwatering, full-flavored hot meal after a run in the chilly rain. The pork was very similar to the first meal the boy ever cooked for me and it (like him) did not disappoint. Next time there will be pictures to illustrate the godly goodness. Which means I might have to let him know that I'm recounting not only my eating but his cooking.
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