Once a week, usually Fridays, I treat myself to a bowl of Russian dumplings at the Bellingham Pelmeni. To the eye, it may seem like the most uninteresting restaurant in town. Nothing much to it at all. There's the food bar, some tables scattered about and a series of tacky modern art hung upon equally tacky orange colored walls. I've become very attached to the place. They have an excellent selection of records to listen to and the pelmeni is effing delicious.

On lucky days, one very perky girl will take my order and chat me up the entire time it takes for the dumplings to boil. She is certainly my favorite of all the employees there. When I first met her, she greeted me with an extended "Hey!" and spoke to me in such a casual, familiar way that I felt like we were friends who had not seen each other in ages. Because of this, I look forward to being served by her and the pelmeni she makes always tastes best.

It may seem odd that such a simple food of pre-packaged dough, potato and meat thrown into a pot of boiling water could taste any different if prepared by someone else. This girl seems meta-physical about the entire method. Tonight she told me that the men who serve after-hours never have time to "love the dumplings" because the lines become long and there are brawling, drunk people demanding to be fed. When I confessed my disastrous attempt to make the dumplings myself, she joyfully explained how the water must be bubbling hot and I must be very gentle with the spatula. Most importantly, when the dumplings float to the top they must be seen dancing and happy before they can be taken out and eaten.

"Love the happy, dancing dumplings." She said cheerfully.

As I repeated that phrase in my head, it seemed like an earnest plea. Something right up there with "Feed the birds." and "Won't someone please think of the children?" How very very sweet.

When I left that night, I thought of how I tend to be pessimistic about my own home-made food. I've always prepared my lunch and dinners indifferently, in the same way I would fold laundry or clean my house. No wonder I could never be pleased with it. It never occurred to me to make an effort to put some genuine love into what I was cooking. God bless that girl.