I'm going to share with you something I haven't shared with anyone. Why? Because quite frankly it's embarrassing. I've wanted to tell someone about this before...but I also want to have friends. However, I woke up feeling rather brave today, and rather alone in this topic. So I figured "Ah, what the heck, let's see if anybody else has this same...issue...problem...embarrassment."
I love Italian food. Probably because I love cheese. And noodles. OMGSH CHEESY NOODLES! It's a good thing I have a high metabolism, because as much as I love noodles and cheese, I should probably be wearing flour sacks as socks to fit my fat cankles.
Anyways, a couple of weeks ago Grandpa, Nana and I went to the Macaroni Grill -- what a heavenly place made by tiny Italian cherubs and unicorns formed out of cheesy noodles. It's dimly lit, so you can walk in all inconspicuous to avoid being seen by friends. They also have paper on the tables so you can doodle - I doodled owls, my favorite thing to doodle. And then, the waiter will come up, introduce himself, grab a crayon and sign his name on your table in big beautiful sprawling crayon letters. (I didn't realize this would be an issue until later.)
Fast forward to "later" - my food had arrived, a gargantuan, steaming bowl of Pasta Milano. The precious noodles were covered in a creamy cheesy sauce, there were sun-dried tomatoes, grilled chicken and other various scrumptious ingredients. I was admiring this heavenly bowl of awesomeness when Shawn, our waiter with muscles everywhere (including his earlobes) came up and interrupted my thoughts. "Miss, would you like some freshly grated Parmesan cheese?" I looked up at his mischievous sparkling eyes and nodded slowly while drooling a bit down my chin.
Make no mistake, I was drooling over the noodles.
Shawn held up the little cheese grater contraption over my pyramid of noodles and began to crank the tiny handle. His muscles flexed in the dim light and as the grater picked up speed, little sparks of cheese started spilling everywhere. God, it was beautiful.
Let's pause here.
I would like to remind you, I knew the waiters name. He signed it on our table. It was Shawn. Because I knew his name, it was easy to assume that Shawn had feelings, a brain, he was capable of putting two thoughts together. This was no longer JUST my waiter, this was a man, Shawn was his name, and he was shredding my fresh Parmesan cheese.
Suddenly embarrassed, I also realized Shawn was capable of judging. Judging me for my love of Parmesan cheese.
I allowed my eyes to follow the curve of his cheese cranking arm, past the little cheese grater, up his massive bicep and then glanced quickly into his eyes. "What is he thinking?" "Does he think I'm a skinny fat girl as the pile of cheese grows?" "Should I stop him?" "Gosh, I don't want to stop him." "If I was at home, or had one of those little individual cheese shakers, I'd make that pile of Parmesan 8x as big." "This is stupid, WHY do I care what he thinks?" "BUT I LOVE PARMESAN CHHHHHEEEESSEEE." "KEEP CRANKING SHAWN! JUST KEEP CRANKING!"
His gaze met mine. He looked at me and raised one of his beautifully groomed eyebrows as if to say "Geez lady, got enough cheese yet?" I struggled to keep his stare. It was as if we were in a shootout. Who was going to give in first? The cheese-loving skinny fat lady, or the muscular cheese grating man? My eyes started watering from the lack of blinkage, cheese was flying everywhere and my face was bright red from my embarrassment over wanting more. I had to give in, I didn't want to give in, but I had to. His eyes were burning cheese judging lasers into my already red face...
I just couldn't take it anymore. Defeated, I looked away from Shawn."That's good." I mumbled. He let out a sigh of relief (probably because I was going to use all of his cheese), put away his cheese judging lasers, wiped his brow and turned our table to leave. I watched him walk away, his shoulders were broad and his calf muscles were the size of my head - jiggling firmly with every step. In his iron grasp resided my beloved cheese grater and as it moved farther away from me, I silently mourned its' growing absence. My pyramid of noodle goodness was covered in a slight cheese snowing, but it wasn't enough to satisfy the inner cheese mongrel that whined inside me.
I hated Shawn, I hated him for not giving me more cheese. I hated myself for wanting more cheese and I hated myself for being embarrassed over my love for cheese. It was a confusing moment in time.
Why can't all cheese grating waters have a standby mode and then an actual shutoff mode? So, while they're in the middle of grating, you can turn to them and "wink" as if to say "You and I both know I want more cheese, but I don't want to actually say it...so this wink means a 5 minute warning." That would be handy, don't you think?
As I try and wrap up this blog, it occurs to me that this ordeal happens nearly every time I go to a restaurant that offers me freshly grated Parmesan cheese. And that's sad for so many different reasons. But, now my secret is out. I love cheese and I'm embarrassed sometimes over my love for cheese. I hope I'm not alone.
Shawn, if you're reading this, I'll be back. Next time, you won't be as lucky.
