I'd just relocated to the countryside. The fast-paced city lifestyle wasn't for me; I felt burnt out. Belmoral was tiny, with only one main street and a population of 3,000.

On my second night, after moving in, I decided to go for a stroll down Piper Avenue, where everything could be found.

Feeling hungry, I entered the restaurant Cheerful Hippo. It was packed, families occupying tables everywhere.

Awkwardly, I sat alone at the back, towards the kitchen, where I could hear loud voices barking instructions.

After ten minutes, a waiter arrived at my table, notepad and pencil in hand.

'Apologies Mister, we are very busy tonight,' gesturing around at the packed room.

I smiled. 'No problem. I'd like to order fettucinne carbonara, thank you.'

'Any drinks?'

'Water will be fine.'

I was the only solo diner in the restaurant. It was something I'd gotten used to, back when I lived in the city; there were places I'd discovered that were more accommodating for the solo diner than others.

The meal was delicious, but after paying at the front desk, I decided I likely wouldn't be back as I'd detected mutterings from nearby diners regarding the fact I was the only solo diner in attendance.

Two days later, 12pm. I was relaxing on a bench in Rosewood Park, which was just a couple blocks down from my apartment. Smartphone in hand, I was also looking for any potential job openings, but after half an hour I gave up.

The park was close to Piper Avenue, like everything in Belmoral. Being lunchtime, it'd be easier to find a spot more accommodating to the solo diner.

I passed by Cheerful Hippo, feeling awkward, possibly because I doubted I'd be returning, and knowing I'd have to walk past there many times in the future.

Eventually I came upon a tiny Japanese eatery called Bententei, who specialized in bento boxes.

I opted for bento box A, which included karaage chicken, gyoza, a nori roll, and salad.

Given the time, the place wasn't as busy as I expected, but at least I could eat undisturbed.

The food was delicious, and I left a happy customer. I'd definitely be back again.

As I mentioned, Belmoral was tiny, so there wasn't much to do. There was a school, a post office, a park, a supermarket, the Cheerful Hippo and Bententei, and not much else.

So I walked back to my apartment and opened Instagram, then performed a search for Solo Dining Adventurers.

You may be surprised, but there's a lot of people who, even if they don't choose to at first, eventually embrace the idea of dining alone. So they check out different restaurants, cafes, bistros, and document their experiences online as a solo diner.

While living in the city, I got into solo dining as a way of finding peace and time for myself. When you're dining alone, there's no one to bother or rush you, you can go at your own pace, and it quickly became my favourite manner of dining.

I didn't have many friends in any case.

The following day, once more Bententei was my lunch spot of choice. I discovered they offered okonomiyaki, Osaka-style savoury pancakes. The ingredients consisted of shredded cabbage, egg, spring onion, and topped with a special okonomiyaki sauce, mayo, powdered nori, and Benito flakes.

If that wasn't enough, the lady serving me asked if I'd like any additional ingredients, such as crispy bacon or karaage. I said yes to the latter.

While waiting, an older lady entered the eatery and proceeded to order the exact same thing as myself: okonomiyaki, with extra karaage. Trying not to look surprised, I kept my eyes locked on my table.

A few minutes passed, and I received my order. As I made my first bite, I felt somewhat self-concious, hoping the woman wouldn't notice I was eating the same thing as her.

Upon finishing, my mouth felt dry, so I bought a Mount Franklin spring water to quench my thirst. The lady was almost finished with her okonomiyaki when I returned to my table and had a sip of water.

I paid at the front and when I turned to leave, the lady was standing in my way.

'Oh, sorry,' I stammered. It had long since become instinctual for me to apologize to people.

'No need,' she said, smiling slightly.

I stepped past her awkwardly, and outside to Piper Avenue. As before, I couldn't think of anything to do, so I decided to head home.

Before I could, though, the door from the eatery opened behind me, and I saw the woman appear from it.

'First time I've seen you around,' she said to me, totally casual.

I blinked. What should I say?

She smiled. 'This is a small town, as I'm sure you've gathered. When there's someone new around, they're easy to spot.'

I cleared my throat. 'The food here is good.'

'Agreed. And it seems we have similar taste.' She winked.

The sky was dark and overcast, and as forecasted the rain began to tumble down. The lady waved goodbye, and we turned in separate directions, my mind full of various thoughts.

Bententei wasn't open tomorrow, unfortunately. I spent the day indoors, listening to the steady pounding of the rain.

The day after, the rain had stopped at last, though the weather was very cold. I wondered if Bententei made miso soup? It would really be ideal on a day like this.

Stepping inside, I asked them as much, and the owner confirmed that yes, they do make miso soup. Tofu or no tofu? Tofu, please, I replied. I hoped it'd be especially chunky tofu like they served at a place I went to in the city.

Bententei was busier today, and it was soon filled to capacity. There was still a chill in the air, though as my soup was served, I could see the sun breaking through the clouds.

It was around this time that the lady entered the eatery. She quickly noticed me, and walked towards my table.

'What did you order? Miso?'

I nodded. 'Seemed ideal on a day like this.'

She smiled. 'Agreed.'

Walking up to the counter, the lady ordered herself a bowl of miso soup, then noticed the place was completely packed.

'Can I sit here?' she asked, placing her hand on the chair across from mine.

I smiled. 'Of course.'

'My name's Meredith.'

'I'm Jeff.'

Once there was a man.

The man was old, and he sat on his creaky rocking chair and stared out at his desert of a lawn. The young boy he'd hired to take care of his lawn hadn't come in weeks.

Ah, to be young. He'd probably found a girl and ran off to the movies, maybe gone out and gotten into trouble alongside his friends. Tasting the bittersweet flavor of rebellion for the first time. The boy was young, and he was exploring, and he had no time for such menial things as mowing an old man's yard. The old man understood this, as he was once a boy. Now youth and exploration had slipped through his fingers, and left him confused and alone, until eventually he became an old man on his own in a two bedroom ranch house, wondering what his hired help was up to at the moment.

Was he sneaking a cigarette? Making love to his latest sweetheart in the back of a car, or maybe going to dinner at her house so he could meet her parents? Was he running through private property, reveling in the thrill of breaking the law? Loving the chase, believing he could never be caught.

To be young.

The old man's arthritis-riddled hands twitched at the memory of a time gone by, and for a moment his straw-colored grass became the great green carpet of the house where he'd lived as a boy. he remembered smelling the sweet grass after a fresh morning rain, dew soaking through his shoes. He remembered the tree he'd found, split down the middle from lightning, that had given him nightmares for weeks. The tree had been large and tall, as any old tree is, and at some point had held a tire swing, but the rope had rotted and the tire had rolled away long before his family had moved there. He remembered the way it looked after it had been split apart, the center blackened and charred like a smoker's lung. each branch had become a mere splinter, bowing to the power of the storm.

The old man couldn't remember why the tree had given him nightmares, but he remembered the dreams, and he would wake up still seeing imaginary smoke curling up from his pure, unburnt arms.

He understood now, though, that as a boy he was terrified of death. The idea of standing too tall and being struck down out of spite horrified him. And for the rest of his life he walked with a hunch.

No longer did he fear death, the end of his life was now a cherished inevitability. Eventually, lightning strikes us all.

The old man saw the mother on the street before she saw him, but she did not seem surprised to see him when she looked up and found him staring. Her eyes met his and he recognized the face of another lightning-struck soul. For some people are struck by the great beam of lightning long before they are buried, and they live out the rest of their days in fiery agony, charred and blackened like the tree but never seeming to lose their remaining leaves.

The old man wondered, often now, if he'd been burning ever since the first time he saw that tree. He wondered how long he'd wandered, burning, just waiting for the smoke to finally ebb and leave nothing but ashes behind.

The woman turned up his driveway and started towards his seat on the porch. She only cast one short look towards his empty husk of a lawn before she turned away, as if the barrenness of it horrified her.

She no longer met his eyes.

She handed him an envelope containing just short of two hundred dollars, a name scrawled on it in rushed pen.

He could not understand, so she handed him a second envelope, this one with a much neater, almost resigned handwriting.

The young boy had written a letter to the old man, telling him that he'd saved every penny that the old man had given. The boy was going to use it to go to college, or so he'd written. But now that he could no longer take care of the lawn, all the money, so he said, was a waste. The young boy had written that the world had changed. Youth was no longer a celebration of exploration, youth was a curse and it had trapped this boy in it's grip. The boy had returned the money to the old man, because he would no longer go to college. He would not go to the movies with his girl or go drinking with his friends or walk the length of the abandoned railroad tracks.

The boy had given up on such frivolous things and turned to a darker ambition. Because to rise tall meant to become a lightning rod, and the boy had beckoned the lightning just like the tree from the old man's childhood.

He had begged for lightning to take him, and when lightning refused he built his own thunder, tied it into a noose and hung himself from a ceiling fan that would now forever be just a bit wobbly every time it was turned on.

He understood now why the mother had ashes in her eyes.

Lightning doesn't just strike the old, it strikes the young as well. It burns and it kills, and everyone knows lightning is contagious.

The old man thought, lightning will strike this woman soon enough. Because she was a mother, and without that she was now nothing at all. Her motherhood had been struck by lightning too soon, and she would spend the remainder of her life craving the lightning, just like her son. She would stand in the water and stretch her tall metal heart to the sky, just waiting for the lightning to finish her off.

And the boy would take his noose of thunder and extend it down to her as a gift. Indeed, he might try to give it to the old man, too, if the old man was any younger.

Lightning strikes us all.

most norms that people enforce are not without reason. human beings require some regulation, and it seems best that these rules will be chosen over time and tradition rather than imposed forcefully as a law of the land. however there are those norms that seem to be totally arbitrary. one example for that is the almost universally frowned upon act of eating certain foods with a spoon. this is cross-cultural, and sneered upon in many social strata.

why is it so?

what is the big thing about spoons that seem to consign their user with the threat of causing embarresment for themselves?!

as usuall, here is the basics. (is? yes! IS!!)

1) you CAN eat anything you want with a spoon. it is at times more or less practical to use spoons than forks. each utensil has its particular benefits and drawbacks.

2) it is considered impolite to eat the main courses, antrees and anything that isn't soup or a dessert with anything other than a fork.

3) the choice of utensils to place upon a table is very much an aspect of culture. east asian culture favors chopsticks, while medival culture placed importance on the usage of a personally owned knife, accompanied with the fingers of the right hand.

4) all cultures have produced spoons and readily make use of them , mainly with the eating of soups, or other foods that can not be hooked through or picked up. in many cases , the use of spoons in other forms of eating is considered as a sign of immaturity, or even barbarity. as if the dextrous manipulation of one kind of utensil is superior, and more indicative of a higher , elevated status than the other.

now , for some possibilities...

it could be argued, that as the main course of western food is served mostly in un-cut units, like a steak, or a fish. the proper separation of the serving into smaller bite sizes needs a knife as the cutting implement, while the fork serving as a steadying tool, staking the meat to the plate, or prying out only what is wanted. again, this is of course an advantage for the usage of forks.

perhaps the choice of cutlery is more symbolic of the sharing of eating, where one is needed to provide, while the other to take.

a royal court would accept this explanation of the superiority of some utensils over others. indeed, it was at times a symbol of high prosperity to be able to own a fork, being something commonly made of a refined and articulated metal, whereas the lowly peasant would be presented with and represented by spoons, being just a step above a smoothed out piece of driftwood.

in cases where transition is required between knife and another utensil, it could be argued that it would then seem impractical or even compromising to alternate frequantly, first taking up a fork then placeing it aside, when eating other things.

of course we can also expand upon the historical aspect of fork usage. the relatively late introduction of forks, and the supression of spoon usage, comes at a time when most of the gentry was being asked to forgo the traditions of the Code Chiville. most countries started banning the carrying of personal weaponry within city limits and certainly when presenting themselves at high society. swords, daggers and firearms were oulawed for personal possession. to prevent a backksurge, or even reactionary trend. hosts provided guests equally with a cutting implement, of exceeding quality. some whishing to outdo even that, offered guests another personal utensil that is pointed and sharp. the spoon, was made more oval as well, bearing a closer resemblance to a sheild. having been armed with such cutlery, a guest may have felt more at ease. knowing of the possibilities they entail vis-a-vis self-defense.

i would be remiss if i leave out the usage of fatty sauces that drench the served meat. a spoon-user would take along with the meat quite a lot of this sauce, turning the carefully planned menu into a dietery quagmire.

this is actually the reason why in asian cuisine, spoons are shunned, as the chopsticks allow the diner much more of a chance to avoid the oilyness and spices of the sauce.

there is a final argument to be made, though i reject it, being a preposterous claim. this argument being, that granulated foods, such as rice, corn and some legumes, are a relatively late arrival, and were prized greatly for their sophistication and novelty. the usage of a fork with these foods is obviously less efficient, than the use of a spoon. it is very possible that this was somwhat of a shibollet for high society. are you urbane enough to balance your appetite against the bitter reality of gravity and the vissectitudes of a narrow, uneven tool? oh the chance at making fun of those who failed...

while the malice that bored men possess is heavy indeed, it is not likely to be the explanation, as that forks are at times made bigger and with a greater surface area than the accompanying spoon. moreover, if the purpose of the usage of forks was to test skill and separated the newbies from the elite, then why not make the tines of the form more spaced out or splayed in different directions. spoons could be made with a hole in the center, to test the dexterity and experience of a cultured diner just the same.

"Peas again! Ugh, I'd rather have corn or cauliflower." thought Marylyn, as she shifted her feet under the table. Suddenly her cold, bare foot touched something hairy and warm. She choked back a scream. What kind of a monster was lurking under there? Finally she worked up the courage to look and discovered...her brother’s leg.

No one cares what I’m doing with my life. They say, the dead are so easily forgotten. Do what you love, while you can. But no one will ever understand. The thoughts that come like tsunamis, ready to be my next worst metaphor. The bad poetry. Sucking down cold coffee, the rude people who I thank sarcastically when they don’t hold the door open for me. I’m a pigeon, the rats of the city. I suck good resources from the earth. Why am I here? I close a door and none of the windows open. I’m left inside, suffocating, when really you’ve already stopped reading.

Why is it considered uncouth to eat things with a spoon? I'm not really sure, but who cares! I'm one of those people who eat potato chips with a fork. Technically you're supposed to use your fork with your left hand. Nobody but left-handed people do that...unless of course you're me. I'm somewhat ambidextrous, and I enjoy using my left hand for stuff. Can you spread your butter on your bread with your fork? Sure! Why not? Yeah, if you're at a fancy dinner, you should use your silverware properly. What do I think you should do? Well, you should eat everything with silverware, even finger food, and have salad forks, and dessert forks, and regular forks and appetizer forks. Either that, or eat everything with your fingers. In other words, GO EXTREME, just for the fun of it. Relax and enjoy yourself. Everyone always suspected that you were weird anyway. :)

Moving methodically, speaking melodically, her warm gaze searched his malachite eyes.

Her smile was hypnotic. Her giggle was enchanting.

Each little quirk struck a new chord.

Though he tried with all his might to deny, it didn't take him very long to discover she was already dancing upon his heart...

Blue bird singing outside my window,

letting me know the day is new.

I lean on the frame to say hello.

I watch her land in the nest with her babes.

Beautiful creatures perfectly made.

The second I feel You;

I know that I’m Yours.

Not literally, but in my heart,

like the babies and the mother bird.

Little ones that don’t speak at all,

yet they know to whom they belong

because she treats them so well

and grows them to be so strong.

The sound of my engine giving out on me again

fills the air as tears suffocate my eyes.

Fourth time this week, my boss

won’t continue to be understanding.

My forehead meets the cold tan steering wheel

of my beat-up pickup truck.

A sigh leaves my mouth.

Every day I want to give up

but,

When life drags on hopelessly,

I dance with You.

Again and again,

you take the lead,

so I don’t have to.

A woman with short, bobbed hair yells at me in Target

for accidently scanning her dog food twice.

My hands shake and my voice quivers,

I feel foolish.

I feel belittled,

but,

I have Your Word tucked in my heart.

They never leave me, nor forsake me.

Letter recipes that sit so sweet on my tongue.

One taste and my paralyzing fears are gone..

“The Lord is my light and my salvation;

whom shall I fear?”

Daily reminders of truth that shine light

on the darkest of evils.

I remind myself I am called beloved

and wipe my tears away.

The green numbers on the oven glow 11pm.

Sitting on the tile floor, alone in the kitchen,

phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram.

Slapped in the face by the posts I see.

My “friends” must have forgotten

to invite me,

but,

Your comfort is as solid

as a steady heartbeat.

At your table,

I always have a seat.

For love and affection,

You never make me compete.

At the very end of everyday

when the air is stale and silent,

I get to sit still and chat with You.

My dark grey comforter forms a cocoon

and my Cinderella nightlight illuminates the room.

There’s no big epiphany or trumpets from the sky.

It’s me talking out loud to the only being that ever

makes me feel like I’m worthy to be alive.

Though I try to stray every day to live life my own way,

You continue to let me come back,

carrying the shattered pieces of my longing soul.

Delicately you place them together again,

as if it never got a scratch.

My eyelids droop and my voice begins to fade.

A few last thoughts escape me.

They’re a jumble of sleepy mumbled mess,

but Jesus doesn’t mind.

You’re mine and I am Yours.

You’re with me till the end.

Thank you. I love you,

my very best friend.

He sat, his slender fingers resting on the piano keys. He began to play. His fingers struck the keys with confidence, but the music was painfully jarring. What was wrong with it? Wait! He played through it once more, switching two notes. Ah, now it was perfection! He was satisfied.