“is this really dinner?” i ask incredulously. i fear the words sound patronizing. i regret them immediately.

across the counter, she glances at me and smiles. the fear and regret gently wash away. gratitude comes in for my curiosity being heard and received.

“of course!” her voice rings softly like a well-tuned wind chime. “my daughter loves a platter like this. i bet yours will too.”

and as i begin to protest the apparent lack of protein, she ladles freshly steamed black caviar lentils into small steel bowls. “that makes… eleven plants!” she announces cheerfully. she distributes the bowls and slides the boards over to me.

to my mind it is an incomprehensible dinner, as if beamed into my reality from another world. it is strange and new and utterly devoid of bread and rice.

it is a beautiful dinner, my stomach counters with a gurgle, and the mind is silenced.

the boards are reminiscent of charcuterie displays, large butcher blocks generously filled with colors of the earth. the black lentils, now dotted with a crumbling of moist israeli feta, are surrounded by deep purple kalamata and garlic stuffed green olives. alongside them sits an assortment of blueberries, raspberries, and mandarins (in their own bowl! inconceivable!) while thinly sliced yellow and red bell peppers, with green cucumber strips and orange carrot sticks, fan out around a small dipping cup.

i shudder as she spoons in some ranch dressing to the cup. “it’s the perfect dip!” she chides with mock indignance, and in this crazy moment of new love i become willing to reconsider my aversion.