Friday night. We drive up outside our favorite steakhouse. The valet takes our key. The maître d shows us to our table. Yippee! Our favorite waiter is working our section. Geoff and I order a porterhouse. To split. It’s been the kind of week when I do not want to cook a meal, do not want to eat another sandwich or bowl of soup or hummus and crackers or almond milk yogurt. It’s been the kind of week when a steak is what I want, with a salad, sautéed spinach, baked potato. No butter. No crumbled blue cheese. Only olive oil. Lactose is not my friend. A glass of Rose. A glass of Pinot Noir. Lots of water. Everything is delicious. And when the dessert menu comes, I want to indulge. Crème Brulee, Tartufo, tiramisu, cheesecake, chocolate lava cake, ice cream and sorbet. ​“Lemon sorbet,” I tell the waiter. Meh. It’s the only sorbet flavor they have. ​“How many scoops,” he asks. I raise two fingers. Dessert comes. Tiramisu for Geoff. Two white lumps for me. I spoon a lump of the right-hand scoop into my mouth. It’s creamy. It’s delicious. It’s ice cream. I drop the spoon. ​“Oh no,” I whisper-wail to Geoff. ​“It’s dairy.” I wave over the waiter. I send back the dessert. He apologies. ​“No worries,” I smile, and my heart breaks while I watch him carry the vanilla ice cream away.