eat the hair

On our second date, Burton and I went to a Vietnamese restaurant. I can't tell you what I ordered, but I know it included broccoli. And--free bonus!--a hair. A looong, strong black one, that in the course of the cooking process had become entangled in the broccoli. So when I stabbed a floret and held it over the plate, the effect was like a string a pearls, each vegetable dangling elegantly above the next. I held up my fork and considered the situation: a second date (and hoping for a third), a belly-grumbling hunger, but an unavoidable gag reflex. I don't believe in staging a big fuss for the waitress. (Let's face it: A meal without a cat hair is a rare occurrence in my house. I don't judge.) So I filled up on rice and pushed the rest aside.

Later, after the nausea had passed, we agreed that there are some situations where, sorry, but you have to eat the hair. A first date, for example, and he cooked? Job interview? Meeting the in-laws? Be a man, eat the hair.

So one of the few souvenirs I brought home from our trip to the Caribbean was a bag of cocoa sticks. We searched up and down several islands for these logs of unsweetened cocoa, narrowed at each end like a torpedo. They look like nothing you'd find at Williams Sonoma. (Except maybe floating in the employee restroom, but now I've gone too far.) Bringing them home through customs, we decided that if anyone gave us any trouble about our cocoa logs, we'd just counter with a loud and emphatic, "Our own feces--is there a problem?"

Anyway. The other night, after much anticipation, I melted the cocoa in water, added a cinnamon stick, clove, milk, and sugar. Finally, I fished out the looong black hair that'd been baked into the log, fought down the gag, and served up the most divine cocoa ever to Burton. Without telling him about the hair. Sometimes it's just easier that way. Shhh--our secret!