Nothing funny about feldspar

Ever since we moved into the house we’re in, Plagioclase and I have indulged ourselves in “stinky-cheese dinner.” This consists of us going to the local fine-food deli and paying way too much for imported and/or artisanal cheeses redolent of odeur de pied, snagging some baguette, grapes, and opening a bottle of kick-in-the-head red wine.

We used to do this dinner in front of the fireplace in the winter — maybe once a month (give or take), depending on finances, weather, and general mood. We’d chat, laugh, yell at the dog (he learned to stay away from the little side table we use to hold the goodies)… It was all very romantic.

However, now that Plagioclase’s mother lives with us, we’re more or less expected to all have dinner together. So that means we sit at the table two rooms away from the fireplace, and listen to her say for the 987th time, “What’s that cheese? I call it Limburger!” and “Wine? It all is [Italian] red to me!” and “Albite, did I drop something?”

It almost makes me wish I’d drunk the whole bottle of wine by myself.