Technically Edible
by James Foster Reed
Copyright© 2026 by James Foster Reed
Comedy Story: A romantic dinner, a charming entomologist, and one very enthusiastic off-menu dish. Technically Edible is a comedy of manners about the distance between good intentions and good judgment. Measured, in this case, in legs.
Tags: Fiction Humor AI Generated
Siobhán O’Rourke arrived seven minutes early, which was early enough to seem nervous and not early enough to pretend she had meant to do it.
The restaurant was nicer than she had expected. Not chandelier-nice, not the sort of place where the menu listed ingredients in emotional fragments, but warm and deliberate. Amber light pooled on polished wood. Linen napkins folded beside wine glasses. Candles flickered.
Jason Avery stood when she approached the table.
He was, annoyingly, handsome.
Not generically handsome either. He had the relaxed posture of someone who spent time outdoors, dark hair that defied the comb, and the kind of smile that made a woman a bit flustered.
“See-oh-bahn?”
“Shi-VAWN,” she said, then immediately softened it with a smile. “Sorry. Irish spelling likes to make a holy show of itself.” She offered her hand. “And you would be Jay-Sahn?”
He took it, laughing. “Jason. Jason Avery. Tragically ordinary.”
“A phonetic man. Very modern.”
“Thankfully, very phonetic.”
He pulled out her chair without making a performance of it. The waitress appeared almost instantly, elegant in black, with the composed expression of a woman trained to witness engagements, breakups, affairs, and sauce complaints without breaking a sweat.
“Good evening. My name is Claire and I’ll be looking after you tonight. May I start you with something to drink?”
Jason glanced at Siobhán. “Wine?”
“Wine is good.”
“Red or white?”
“I’m afraid I’m the kind of person who says ‘whatever you recommend’ and means ‘please don’t judge me.’”
Claire’s smile warmed by one professional degree. “That is very common and completely survivable.”
Jason laughed. “Then we’ll trust you.”
When the waitress left, there was a small pause. First-date silence. Not empty exactly. Furnished, but with the protective plastic still on, like her Nana’s sofa.
“So,” Jason said, “you work in software?”
“I do. For an insurance company.”
“That sounds more exciting than you make it sound.”
“It absolutely is not. I build internal business systems. Claims tools. Underwriting workflows. Reports, dashboards. Things no one notices until they stop working, at which point they become the moral center of the universe.”
“That’s actually interesting.”
“That’s kind of you. Wrong, but kind.”
“No, really. Systems people depend on without thinking about them. That’s important.”
She looked at him, slightly suspicious. “That was either sincere or very well researched.”
“Sincere. I’m terrible at research on people. Better with insects.”
“Bugs?”
“Insects, technically.”
“Ah. Already correcting me. Bold first-date strategy.”
His eyes crinkled. “Sorry. Occupational reflex.”
“No, I understand. I spend most of my day swatting bugs.”
Jason chuckled. “You’d have plenty to do at my lab, then.”
“Only if yours also appear after deployments and cause vice presidents to use phrases like ‘mission critical.’”
“Mine mostly eat leaves.”
“Ah! Luxury.” She gave him an admiring little nod.
The wine arrived, crisp and pale. Siobhán took a sip and felt herself relax. Jason asked questions and listened to the answers, which put him ahead of several men with mortgages and LinkedIn endorsements. He told her about his lab, fieldwork, a conference in Montreal where half the attendees had argued about beetle taxonomy over breakfast.
“You say that as if it’s not a warning sign,” she said.
“It was spirited.”
“People always say ‘spirited’ when they mean ‘someone nearly weaponized a croissant.’”
“It was a bagel, actually.”
“Worse. Denser.”
He grinned. “What about you? You’re local?”
“Mostly. Grew up about twenty minutes from here. Went to State. Stayed close.”
“Because of work?”
“Partly. Family, too. I like where I live. I know that’s not very glamorous.”
“I think it is.”
“You’re easily impressed.”
“Maybe. Or maybe people who know what they like are rare.”
That landed more gently than she expected. She looked down at her glass.
“I’m not sure I know what I like,” she said. “I know what I don’t like.”
“Useful start.”
“Meetings without agendas. Men who say ‘actually’ before I’ve finished speaking. Dashboard requests described as ‘simple.’”
“Noted.”
“And mushrooms pretending to be meat.”
“Noted again,” with that smile again.
“You seem to like notes.”
“I’m a man of science.”
“Terrifying sentence.”
The waitress returned with their entrées, moving with the quiet precision of a stagehand during a serious play. She set a shallow bowl before Siobhán. The risotto was beautiful: creamy and pale gold, with herbs, a glossy thread of oil, and a crisp toasted topping scattered over the surface.
“Chef Marcus sends his compliments,” the waitress said. “He was pleased to accommodate the special request for you.”
“For us?” Siobhán asked.
Jason looked delighted. “For us.”
The waitress’s eyes flicked, for the smallest possible fraction of a second, toward Jason. “Please enjoy.”
Siobhán inhaled. Butter, Parmesan, something nutty and warm.
“This looks awesome,” she said, and took a generous forkful.
It was excellent. Ridiculously excellent. The rice held its shape without being chalky, the sauce was rich but not heavy, and the topping gave it a crisp, savory crunch.
“Oh,” she said. “That is unfairly good.”
Jason’s face lit up. “You like it?”
“I do. Especially the crunchy bit. Hazelnut?”
“Not quite.”
“Breadcrumb?”
“Closer in application.”
She took another bite. “You’re being mysterious about carbohydrates.”
“It’s actually adjacent to my research,” he said, brightening. “Sustainable protein, alternative food sources, feed efficiency. Edible insects are having a moment.”
Her fork paused halfway back to the bowl.
“Edible ... what?”
Jason, encouraged by what he interpreted as interest, continued. “Crickets in particular are incredibly efficient. High protein, lower environmental impact, and culturally the resistance is mostly psychological.”
Siobhán lowered the fork.
“Jason.”
“Yes?”
“What is the crunchy bit?”
He smiled, as though arriving at the reveal in a lecture he had practiced and loved. “Toasted cricket pangrattato.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.