Feta Chicken.

No, not Chicken With Feta. FETA CHICKEN.

Last night I had a perfectly lovely dinner with my perfectly lovely friend S and her perfectly lovely boyfriend M. (Oh God I just realized that together they are S&M. Bygones.)

Anyway, we went out for Greek, and we ordered a sampler platter. It was my first time meeting M, and S had not briefed him on my OCD ways. At one point I used my clean spoon to...spoon out some hummus and some tzatziki onto my plate (hoping to set an example that there would be no dippage here tonight), then I used my clean fork to wrestle off a chunk of feta to put onto my own plate as well. I also stabbed tomato and then a cucumber slice, but halfway to my plate, the cucumber slid off and fell onto the table. I didn't want to cause a scene, so I put it on my plate anyway.

Then, M, being a gentleman, picked up the whole piece of feta with his bare fingers and placed it on my plate in a "here you go, you forgot this" gesture.

S, knowing me through and through, said, "Oh honey, OHHHH, honey, no, no, we don't do that. Let me tell you a little something about Jo. Jo doesn't do the germ thing." And we both proceeded to give him a (humorous) run-down of my "little situation."

We laughed, the moment passed, and all was well, and we continued to have a perfectly. lovely. evening.

But got-damn if that lone chunk of feta, and that rogue cucumber, didn't sit on my plate, utterly untouched, mocking me, playing chicken, making us all uncomfortable, all the live-long night. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. You won, feta.