One time Laura and I visited Nauvoo, a little town in Illinois along the Mississippi River. In the middle of the 19^th Century, Mormons more or less on their way west stopped there and created a village for themselves from the mosquito infested swamp. Unfortunately they couldn’t get along with their non-Mormon neighbors, or the other way around. Turmoil and tragedy. Murder. And the burning of the Mormon temple. But now there’s a small settlement and a handsome looking temple. Unfortunately we couldn’t get into the temple because it was being renovated—only Mormons allowed. We did tour the village, and it was quite interesting. We went from building to building where historically costumed Mormons told us the history of the place. A really cute young woman showed us examples of cross-writing, a technique of letter writing that enabled twice as many words per page.

“You thought that little letter writing girl was hot, didn’t you?” Laura asked me as we strolled out of the Mormon village. “I have to doubt her outfit was genuine Mormon garb. Did you see how high the slit came up? How come you didn’t ask her about oral sex?”

“I would have if you’d asked her about the underwear,” I replied.

Laura laughed and squeezed my hand. More or less secluded behind a huge tree, we kissed, almost certainly with a passion that exceeded Mormon guidelines. Between kisses we admired the Mormon temple off in the distance. “The sun really likes that dome,” Laura observed. “Kind of phallic, don’t you think? The crown almost looks like it’s covered in cum. Let’s go to lunch.”

We ate at a little sandwich place recommended by someone at the settlement. The food was bland. Memorably tasteless. “Do you suppose this is authentic Latter-day Saint cuisine?” I asked Laura.

“I don’t know, but I say we skip dessert,” Laura replied.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We could go back to the hotel and—”

“There’s this glass blowing place I want to see,” Laura interrupted.

The glass blower’s establishment was in a converted barn just outside of town. We admired the glassware, but we could only afford to buy a couple of glass buttons. While I meandered about the shop mentally constructing a short story about a glass blower and his adulterous bride, Laura engaged the artist in a long conversation about techniques and materials and so on, and as we were leaving, two glass blown buttons in hand, she mentioned to him our disappointment in the diner. “Par for the course around here,” the glassblower said, his expression half grin, half grimace, and he suggested a place for dinner, so that evening, following his recommendation, we went to Dot’s.

Unlike the lunch place, which had what could only be called a sterile ambience, the restaurant was comfortably lit. Soon after we were seated, Laura took out the two glass buttons and placed them on the table before her. “Do you like them?” she asked me.

Before I could answer the waitress appeared. To my eyes she could have been the older sister of the young Morman who showed us the cross-writing. “Those are really nice,” the waitress remarked. “Did you get them at Gavin’s?”

“We did,” Laura said with enthusiasm.

“He has so much nice stuff,” the waitress said. “And he’s a really nice guy.”

“Yeah, I felt that way too,” Laura said.

The waitress asked if we’d had a chance to study the menu.

“Could you recommend something?” Laura asked.

“The chicken,” the waitress said. “It’s got a bit of a kick to it. Dot’s private recipe.”

“So there really is a Dot?” I said.

“There is!” the waitress told us. “She has a little apartment above the kitchen. Eight-six years old now, but she still comes down to supervise now and then.”

“I hope I’m not being rude asking this,” I said, “but the chicken’s not a Morman dish, is it?”

The waitress smiled. She glanced around. In a quieter voice she said, “That’s kind of a dirty word around here.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll have the chicken.”

“Me too,” Laura said.

It was good. Spicy hot. Just enough kick. We dawdled a bit, stretching out the evening, trying to decide whether to have dessert or ask for the check. Laura clicked her two glass buttons on the table. Turned them to catch the light. “Which do you like better?” she asked.