I try not to be a food snob but when my boyfriend asked if we could have dinner at Ikea I turned up my nose. His eyes sparkled as he recounted the times he ate there with his family, and he spoke of them being together, of him ordering the steak, of all the happy memories.
Endearing, I thought, but no. Dinner at an Ikea cafeteria that’s not out of necessity was an unappealing prospect to me. I was imagining it: the clingfilmed salads; the rows of cold dishes bleakly sitting on metal shelves; the hot food counter featuring dreary trays of beige meatballs. I said no. Upon reflection, however, I realized that I was a b*tch robbing him of his nostalgic cravings.
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