My good friend and college roommate got married to the girl of his dreams while we were still undergraduates. (I was at the wedding and got the garter, but that is another story for another time).Since we shared the same bedroom for a couple of years I can vouch that he dreamed about her often. (She popped up in mine a few times too, but don’t tell Charlie.) When the happy couple set up house, an early agenda item was having me over for dinner. I would never say “no” to dinner anywhere, but these guys were special, so dinner at their place was a social as well as gustatory treat. I arrived in time to smell something really good wafting from the kitchen. What’s cooking, Charlie, I asked? Marie’s famous meatloaf (the first one, too). All the trimmings to go with it and probably some beer, although I don’t remember for sure. I never went anywhere without beer, so probably either I had it or they had it. Maybe ice tea. Anyway, as it got closer to the meal, we got hungrier. Finally, the announcement: time to dig in. And there it was. A big beautiful meatloaf. Fragrant. A little catsup on the side and this puppy would be gone in no time. The carving went well, and we each got nice big slice. Mine was from near the middle. Rare. Very rare. I ate the rare middle and the medium outside and it was good and tasty. It was also to be one of those lifetime stories repeated when ever friends get together. That was probably nearly 50 years ago, and the memory is fresh; rare, really.Thanks guys for a great meal, for a great memory and for an enduring friendship.
*told with permission of the happy couple, just recently grandparents!
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