If there were a picture next to the word unctuous in the dictionary, it would be of a goat's-milk brie, room temperature, smeared over a hunk of baguette ripped open down the middle and butterflied by fingers eager taste the mellow tang and smooth creaminess against tender tendrils of bread, the chewy-crisp crust being the perfect foil for the viscous cheese.
Adulthood would have an image of three friends sitting down to eat, a simple beige felt blanket over the table, plates, forks, souvenir champagne flutes filled with a cheap but very drinkable cabernet sauvignon, a plate of greens, a bowl of pasta, the cheese on the small cutting board being passed from hand to hand as conversation rolls as naturally as the low-set desk chairs gathered around the card table laden with food.
(Drinkable is a word that means "I don't know anything about wine, but this tastes like it and it has a fancy French name that I can pronounce because I saw the movie Sideways and is, if I ever have money, something I would like to know more about by trial and error.")
Tiramisu would come in blue plastic cups, "parfait" style, with warm blackberry coulis and chocolate chunks melting into the hot fruit over the top.
Conversation would be the position taken on the couches afterward, recumbent like ancient Romans after a feast, practically horizontal, one hand across the belly as topics shift from Disney princesses to Apple products to Google to the value of waiting tables as a job to the tales of jobs past and present to people to the future is almost here. (The future is always almost here.)