This has absolutely nothing to do with the contemplative life, or motherhood. In fact, it is more about that fascinating topic I can't write enough about: Belgian food. Now, I hate to complain, but this evening my husband and I ate at a restaurant in town supposedly bringing Belgian food to our fair city. They served what they called "frites," but they tasted like seasoned fries I've ordered from many chain restaurants; in fact, they were nothing like the Belgian frites I've tasted. I'd have been better off ordering a big packet of Wendy's fries. I kept thinking about the frozen fries I prepared for my kids in the oven before we left for our evening, and even those were more like Belgian frites than the ones I was eating at the restaurant. I ate them anyway, because they were there. The sauces were nice, but none was a Belgian sauce except for mayonnaise. I kept thinking of those McCain "Mash Bites," a.k.a. croquettes, and thought the restaurant might want to see if they could get a big crate of those delivered as a more authentic option. They'd be more Belgian than those crunchy, seasoned fries. When we arrived, our friends said of my husband, "This guy's a real Belgian." The waitress glanced down and said in a bored voice, as if all the customers claim to be real Belgians and she didn't believe it and certainly didn't care, "Oh, a real-live Belgian." She took our drink orders without comment, and didn't smile the entire evening.