I neglected my blogging responsibilities over the weekend. Gotta work on not letting this happen in the future, but first I gotta work on being able to focus on my daily responsibilities when my mind is fully preoccupied with the magnetic presence of another human being whose very existence is an effortless validation of every notion that I’ve held about the world since childhood, but was told were unreasonable and foolishly idealistic by cynical wet blankets with the nerve to call themselves “adults.”

“HEY GEORGE WHO’S THIS PERSON YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT ALL THE TIME WHAT WITH YOUR CRAZY HYSTERICS ON FACEBOOK AND TWITTER I HAVEN’T THE SLIGHTEST CLUE WHO SHE IS WINKING SMILEY FACE”

What an excellent question, you of the decrepit punctuation! And I shall now attempt to explain it to you through the use of my favorite Overused Personal Writing Crutch: The Hilariously Inept Food Analogy (second only to Extreme Semicolon Usage in my writer’s toolbox).

Imagine for a moment that you’ve never tasted a filet mignon in your life. In fact, imagine that you can’t even be sure they exist. This particular delicacy is mythical to you. You’ve never seen one, nor any evidence of one. But this one time, when you were a child, you saw a movie that had a filet mignon in it. It was perfect. It was the greatest meal ever conceived by the dreams of mankind. But it was just a movie.

“Silly boy,” the grownups said. “You are watching a fiction! Cast thy eyes down from the clouds, dear child, and wallow in the collectively sanctioned nutritional negligence that our society has so graciously prepared for your kind.”

You read a book once that was all about filet mignon. The person who wrote the book even claimed to have had one before! You loved this book. It made you look forward to the day when you found one of your own.

“Stupid boy,” the grownups said. “This book is rubbish! Everyone knows there’s no such thing. Turn your back on these juvenile fantasies and join us in the real world where everything tastes mild and predictable.”

One day, when you were a little older, one of your friends gave you a stale cheeseburger from a chain restaurant. “Try it!” she said, sincerity and treachery fighting for real estate upon her brow. “I know what this looks like, but it’s actually a filet mignon. Honest!”

You were young. You didn’t know any better. Perhaps, you thought, they just look different in real life. You bit into the thing as her smile changed into a rictus of wanton glee.

“Wretched boy,” the harlequin said. “There is no filet mignon in this world! No one has the will or the strength to make one. You are stupid and weak for believing in them. I hope I have taught you not to expect anything more than what I have given you.”

The harlequin vanished in a puff of mesquite smoke. You wandered on, hungry, daring not to hope again. The disappointment of those lofty expectations was far greater than you had anticipated. This mythical food meant more to you than you had first believed. Best not to take any more chances.

You found a chain restaurant. When they offered you a cheeseburger, you accepted. It wasn’t a bad cheeseburger, all things considered. But with each bite you began to realize that you didn’t even like cheeseburgers. The staff hovered over your shoulder, begging you to enjoy the thing, but you couldn’t. It didn’t matter to you. But they pressured you, insisted on a hefty tip for even bringing you a burger at all. You left some cash on the table and ran out.

“Evil boy,” they said. “You should have been grateful for this meal when you had the chance! This is the best you will ever get, and you’ve ruined it all. We’ll find you some day, and we’ll make you pay for all the other customers too.”

You ran into the night, confused. How could you have known what to expect? It occurred to you that you’d forgotten what a filet mignon even looked like. Maybe you’d better just keep running and forget about the whole thing. At least you were moving now.

Up ahead, you saw another restaurant. Looked like a steakhouse. Filled with hope, you rushed inside, grabbed a table and pointed at something on the menu. The waitress brought you a vegan seitan filet. Not knowing what to expect - and barely expecting anything, for that matter - you took a single hesitant bite. It tasted a little funny, but at least it wasn’t another greasy burger. At this point, you were so desperate that you began to think this might be the real deal. Still didn’t taste quite right, though.

The waitress returned, and you asked about the thing in front of you. It’s okay, you said, but it’s not really what you expected. She said that it was exactly what you wanted. Couldn’t you tell? Maybe you just weren’t ready for it yet. Maybe you had to learn to enjoy it.

You sat there and tried to eat it. Each bite had less flavor than the one before it. After a while you were just eating for the sake of having something to do. The whole thing made you sick. In truth, this grotesque substitute had been poisoned, but you still felt like a fool for not enjoying it as you were told. The waitress took your half-empty plate.

“Sad boy,” she said. “Maybe you’re just not good enough to appreciate this delicacy. I’m going to give your leftovers to someone else before they get cold. It doesn’t matter; he’s been stealing bites of your meal the whole time anyway.”

You walked outside and sat on the curb. No one seemed to know what a filet mignon was supposed to be. No one seemed to care. Even you could barely remember why you ever wanted one. You’d run too far; the whole idea was so distant it hardly seemed worth it. Maybe you’d been childish after all.

“Screw it,” you said. “I don’t need this. I have better things to do than obsess over mythical foods that I’ll never be able to find. Better to just forget that any of this ever happened.”

So now you walk on, ignoring the restaurants and the diners as you pass them by. You feel the sun on your face, the breeze at your back, the ground beneath your stride. Maybe this is all you really need. Once in a while, you still contemplate what a filet mignon might actually taste like, but you always let the thought drift away. Who has time for these fantasies anymore?

One evening, you see a light behind the trees at your side, just off the main road. A narrow driveway weaves from the street toward a cottage nestled in a clearing, the pinpoint glow of candles visible as drops of copper in its windows. A hand-lettered sign swings from a wrought iron post, French calligraphy glistening in the light of the driveway lanterns. You realize, slowly, that you are hungry. You know also that you cannot afford another disappointment. But something in your heart - something you thought long buried - leaps at the sight of this tiny restaurant.

You pick your way along the driveway slowly, checking the parking lot for other cars. Empty. You approach the door, wondering if the place is even open at all.

The restaurant is empty. Candles wink on every table. The place smells of basil and thyme. There is one waitress. She leads you to your seat, pours you a glass of water, and tells you that today’s special is filet mignon. Your throat tightens. You ask for a minute to look at the menu first.

Everything here seems so perfect. The bread is warm. The menu bears the mark of an exquisite palate. You could enjoy anything in this place.

But they have filet mignon tonight.

You are bewildered. Is this place even real? Have you conjured it purely out of wishful thinking? Could you even recognize a filet mignon if you found one? Something tugs at you. What about the adventure? What about the risk? What is life if I cannot try just one more time? The waitress returns.

“Have you decided?”

You stammer the words. You hope that she understands. She smiles and strides purposefully into the kitchen, switching aprons and pulling a cutting board from the shelf. This place is hers alone, and she is the chef.

The wait is nerve-wracking. You are unaware of the passage of time, tapping your foot and rolling the tablecloth between your fingers as a lump rises in your throat. If this is to be another lie, the cut will be deep indeed.

The woman places the plate in front of you. You didn’t even hear her approach. A filet mignon rests on the table, looking every bit like you imagined. Despite your reluctance, you cut a small piece and take one quick glance at the woman. She is smiling, her eyebrows raised in anticipation, eager to know what you think of her handiwork. Closing your eyes, you take a bite.

Perfection.

All the memories of everything you ever wanted come flooding back. Now, though, they are but shadows next to the reality of what you’ve found. This is more than what you’ve been searching for. This is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You are overwhelmed. You turn to the woman, who is laughing. You struggle to tell her how incredible it is. It’s a masterpiece. It’s perfect. But you can’t say much with your mouth full. She nods and stifles another laugh.

“Silly boy,” she says. “This is just the way it is here! There’s no need to lavish me with praise. I just do things this way because it makes me happy. But you’re very sweet to say so.”

You are not being sweet, you tell her. You are only telling the truth. She laughs again, pure and undaunted. You join in the laughter this time, your voices the only sounds in the forest, you and this incredible woman alone in a candlelit cottage, far from the road that led you from one lie to the next until you thought you’d never find what you wanted.

The truth is, you’d been right all along.

(I’m going to end this here, fully aware that I’ve just compared the love of my life to a piece of meat, and hope that I’ve somehow managed to convey even the tiniest symbolic representation of what this woman means to me.)