We had plain flatware, not intricately decorated like Timothy’s good set that had been used at the wedding banquet, but they were substantial, not plastic ones, like I’d expected, at least.
I picked up my fork and dug into the chicken. Timothy was using a knife to cut his, so I picked up mine, ready to do some cutting. My first bite was a chew and a half. It must be part rubber.
I remembered a kid I’d known in grade school who carried a rubber chicken about. He was kind of weird, as we all were at that age. I think he used the chicken to unsettle the adults around him because all us kids just ignored his plopping the thing in our faces. Seen once, what’s to scream about, right?
Anyway that rubber chicken might have been cooked and ended up as airplane food . . . oh, geez. The meal wasn’t that bad. I’m being melodramatic here. The green beans, the gravy, and even the chicken were pleasant if not culinary works of art. I glanced over at Ben. He’d passed on dinner and was reading a book. I wondered what genre he liked. Did someone write books about the Fae? Were there Fae mysteries, Fae living on alien planets, and vampire and werewolf Fae books?
I took a bite of the bun, the one they’d offered real butter to spread over. I nibbled and then put it down. Grandma would have been irked at my waste, but I didn’t feel like finishing the rest of my dinner. I moved on to the dessert.
Eureka. That was a hit. The apples were nicely seasoned with a touch of cinnamon and, I think, cloves. The filling wasn’t too sweet so that after I bite I felt sick. No way. I savored every last bite, enjoying the crumbly crust and the way it so agreed with the apple mixture. I ate it all and then practically licked the bowl.
Then when I was done, I looked up. Timothy hadn’t even touched his dessert. He was just sitting there smiling and watching me.
“We’re adding that apple concoction to Ben’s TV tray dinners from now on,” my husband said. “I can tell that’s a favorite of yours.”
There is nothing more embarrassing than finding out that a spectator was watching your obvious salivation over an apple pie/tart. I felt my face heat as I removed the napkin from my lap and placed it on my tray.
“Ok. Eat yours and tell me that it isn’t praise worthy,” I dared him.
Timothy reached over and stabbed the bowl with his spoon and dished up a bite. “Yum,” he said, but I think he was just teasing. Timothy never seemed to appreciate sweets appropriately. What was up with that?