She’s fun, intelligent, attractive and going to school to become a chef. Sounds perfect, right? An attractive girl you could have fun with, want to have around your friends, and, if that’s not a ticket straight to your heart, the food would be. But that’s the problem. I’m like some version of an oversized hobbit. I eat tons of food and the quality is, at times, questionable. A good dinner to me might be a half or full pound of beef, with some peppers and onions and a can of beans. Bon Appetite.

Essentially, my taste buds have the agility of a cow, a fat one (they at the very least have an affinity for cow). And their sense of refinement is on a par with president bush’s sense of tact and eloquence.

Tragically, what this all means is that I am faced with a problem. I can’t imagine eating with her or having her cook for me. Petrified. I manage to put my foot in my mouth often enough as it is (perhaps it’s even gone so far as to tarnish my good taste). I imagine myself walking into a culinary fantasy designed by this beautiful gourmand armed only with the vocabulary of a Sesame Street character like Cookie Monster.

When I show up to a dinner with a bottle of red wine (my highly refined pallet can distinguish red wine and white wine, but I try not to boast) it isn’t simply opened and emptied over the course of dinner. Instead, it receives a close look, the year is taken note of, a very small glass is poured (she knows wines and anticipates that this isn’t going to be something she’s very interested in), smelled and rolled around. It is established that while it is certainly red wine, it is not very good. I didn’t notice in my first attempt and so refill my glass with the intent of listening to my taste buds a little more closely this time around. Dinner wrapped up with me feeling distinctly out of my league. All I can do is read up a little more and hope for better luck next time.