A few weeks after I met my future husband, he invited me to a fancy dinner party for some very dear friends of his from Milan – Neil and Maria Empson, exporters of great Italian wines. It was the early 80’s, Northern Italian cuisine and wines were just catching on and many of the ingredients he wanted for the dinner, including the wines, were hard to find. We spent almost a week shopping for the food and a variety of their wines to serve that Saturday evening.
Love
Love
My Two Loves
Two years ago I fell madly in love with a fella named Bentley. His
piercing emerald green eyes and perfect shade of thick brown hair melted
my heart those first few moments we met. He makes me laugh everyday,
loves to travel, swim in the ocean with me and he'll go anywhere on a
whim. My perfect day is to stay home, lying on the sofa
with him, cooking him three perfect meals a day. We share a pillow at
night and sometimes I find myself staring at him while he sleeps.
Nothing and no one has ever halted my love to travel as much as him. I
find myself completely homesick when I leave him. When I packed my bags
to go to Juneau, Alaska last week I promised him I would bring home as
many salmon treats that would fit in my bag. But until the airlines
come up with a new rule that dogs can sit in a passenger seat, Bentley
will have to be left behind at the farm with my Mother.
Holding Hands
A few months ago I was walking home from work along a side street of Manhattan. Casually strolling towards me was a distinguished man and woman who looked to be in their mid-seventies.
They were holding hands. I was holding my cell phone.
They were quietly talking to each other through matching warm smiles. I was not-so quietly yelling at my husband through the receiver.
The casual pace with which this couple strolled suggested they had not a care in the world. I, on the other hand, was feeling burdened by every care in the world as I ranted into the phone about whatever debacle had occurred in my life that day.
As the couple drew closer, gradually closing the gap between us, the path became too narrow to accommodate all three of us, and soon we were entangled in that awkward step-to-this-side-step-to-that-side dance New Yorkers get stuck in when trying to politely share a confined space. Toning down my fury long enough to acknowledge present circumstances, I shimmied to the right to give the pleasant couple room to pass. They simultaneously stepped to the same side, indicating I should pass. I waved them on with insistence, as if to say, You seem happy. I’m miserable. Please, go first. The kindly couple, however, remained fixed in place, more than happy to give me first passage. I nodded appreciatively, eager to resume my ranting to my husband on the phone, and moved forward.
A Tale of Two Betties
Bettie One sang like a bird and dressed like a pirate and sent my
libido into overdrive. She was an intoxicating beauty with a multitude
of talent. But she didn’t have a talent for food presentation.
One dinner in particular stands out. Maybe “stands out” is the wrong way to put it. “Haunts me” is more like it.
Love in a Pot, Shared
My food store in Maine is overflowing with locally raised vegetables, but the small half bushels of yellow bean always stops me right in my tracks. The sight of freshly picked, ultra-thin, bright yellow beans always brings to mind memories of my dear sweet Mother. When we were kids we visited a farm market on the way home every day to get vegetables for dinner and fruit for the 3 mile ride home. Our parents loved fresh vegetables, but my Mother's face would light up at the first appearance of yellow beans and we ate them every day until the last bean was picked for the season.
Yellow beans make me sad, make me happy and make me miss her again and again, year after year. The first thing that she would cook was yellow beans with pork chops, small white potatoes, oregano and tomatoes. The whole house was filled with the smell of garlic and oregano, filling us with anticipation. We stayed close to the stove talking about our day and snipping the beans. Sneaking small spoonfuls of juice out of the simmer pot to taste without ever being scolded because she always made extra. Being her daughter was as sweet as it gets.
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