The first time I ever went out with him he invited me to lunch. And I thought, oh, OK, I can do that. And he said, oh, come over and I'll make you lunch. And I thought, oh, he must not be able to afford to take me out to lunch... But he lived in an apartment across from where the orchestra plays, that beautiful space downtown, so I thought, oh, OK, he must make enough to live in this part of town. So I went to his across-from-the-orchestra apartment, and he made—I love this—chicken salad in a scooped out half of a cantaloupe. You know how they do that with bread now, putting the soup in the bread? Well, they used to do that with cantaloupe. And I hate cantaloupe. It is a foul, foul fruit. It wasn't even slices of cantaloupe, at least that I could stand. It was an entire half of a cantaloupe, touching everything, touching every part of my food. And I didn't have to eat the cantaloupe, but it was there, it was there and I couldn't get away from it. But, luckily for me, I'm a girl, so I didn't have to eat all the chicken salad, not all the way down to that pale orange flesh. What a wonderful built-in excuse! It wasn't expected, it wouldn't have been very ladylike. So I ate some, and said it was delicious, because it was delicious. And I thought, well, at least he'll never have to cook.
And then I married him, and he didn't!
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