Eating Leftovers with a Spatula

Jeff, the birthday boy

Jeff and I ate at Kobe’s Steakhouse for his birthday tonight. We don’t eat there often, but when we do, it reminds me of my first days here in Orlando. It was the fall of 2001 and I had moved down here with just my clothes, IBM laptop and a few decorative items stuffed in the backseat of my hot new car (which I had to get rid of all too soon because it was a pretty piece of junk).

I knew no one other than my boss and two people from the church I would be attending (shout out to Rich and Brooke). My boss, his girlfriend, my coworkers (shout out to Cameron, Maya, Chris and crew) and I went out to eat at Kobe’s (back then they had BOGO coupons in the phone books), and as is always the case, I took half of the gargantuan portion back “home” (to my first apartment) to eat the next day. I went back the apartment the next day for lunch, as my one and only piece of furniture was being delivered (my lovely yellow couch, which I still have, only it’s mostly brown now). I warmed up my lunch and prepared to eat it, only I owned no silverware. Not even a plastic fork. The kind couple who let me live in their house until I got an apartment (shout out to Dale and Vicki) had given me some cooking utensils, so I ate with what I had: a black plastic spatula. Japanese noodles are very difficult to eat with a black plastic spatula. I don’t recommend it. But I do remember those days fondly and I certainly appreciate all the fine and nice things I have today.

Sleeping on a blow-up mattress in a roach-y apartment is not fun either. So maybe I don’t remember those days that fondly …