I spent the middle third of this century cooking.  I tried new things — including steak and hamburger, without success as I don’t eat red meat and never learned to prepare it.  But I have an adventurous soul in the kitchen and affixed my game face securely in place.  Those to whom I served my awful attempts appreciated the effort.  I also tried my hand at multiple-course meals, optional entrees, and dinner parties.

In the last year, I have developed an aversion to grocery-shopping. My food budget has doubled because I mostly dine out, including morning stops at QuikTrip for the Del-Monte fruit bowl and a gluten-free protein bar.  The staff at the Brookside Panera’s knows me by name and carries my food to the table without my asking.

Yesterday I learned that we needed to close the office today in order to give our secretary a paid holiday.  I acquiesced and started the three-day weekend with dinner at Chai Shai.  I had been craving pakora for weeks, since I shared a plate with Elizabeth Unger Carlisle.  I shot an e-mail to my friend Brenda Dingley, whom I know has had a horrid June, suggesting dinner out.  She hates to cook and was easily persuaded.

Now I cannot regret my choice despite its dreadful consequences.  My joints have swollen.  On top of that, my body apparently does not realize that Independence Day came early this year, because it jarred me to consciousness at 5:45 a.m.  But I am not complaining.  Had I not arisen at my customary time, I would have missed the first sweet hour of air on the porch of the Holmes house in the quiet of the sleeping neighborhood.  I would not have talked to a rabbit which ventured close to my steps or the robin which startled the bunny into motion.   The deprivation of an extra hour of sleep does not outweigh the joy of this peace, just as the ache which I feel this morning cannot make me wish that I had not consumed three beautifully fried pakora.  Some things are just worth the punishment we suffer from partaking of them.