The glorious, pert toadstools sat in their wooden crate with irresistible allure. Spots of soil coyly speckled their feet, and the caps, taut and proud, gleamed up at me. I had to have them. Cepes, baby brown portobello, shiitake, white button. Delicate, seasonal delights that deserve the utmost care in preparation.
A bunched-up square of kitchen paper swipes off grit. The caps are sliced generously and set aside to meet their buttery fate. The stems, roughly chopped and reserved for tomorrow’s mushroom velouté soup.
I turn my attention to the sidekick: my first attempt at potato gnocchi. 2 boiled potatoes worm their way through my food mill. Tines of a fork distribute a pinch of salt, snowdrifts of parmesan, one beaten egg, and just enough flour to bring the dough together. Pillowy soft and satiny, texture of the dough feels gorgeous under my fingertips. I set a large pot to boil generously salted water.
Next door, butter hisses, and in goes minced garlic to start the symphony of aroma. The sliced caps tumble in with a gentle sprinkling of salt. Their meaty juices release into the pan, the smell is glorious; a steam treatment, good for the pores. Once the liquid dissipates and a rich brown fond develops at the bottom of the pan, stir in a bit of broth. When it simmers, I add a generous glog of cream, a damn good scrape of fresh nutmeg, ground black pepper and coriander seed: the warm earthiness of the spices will make the dish even more savory. Finish with a generous sprinkling of parmesan and stir in baby spinach, set aside to receive my gnocchi.
I roll out my tube of dough, cut into tiny pillows, and run them over the back of a fork. My gnocchi resemble irregular projectiles, but no matter. Dropped into the water, they swim aimlessly for just under a minute, until they puff slightly and bob to the surface. About 15 seconds after each ladleful rises, they are spooned straight into the creamy mushroom sauce. More finely grated parmesan to finish.
At first bite, F and I are in bliss. Soft, tender gnocchi are enrobed in the unctuous, rich sauce. Umami, brown and savory. The earthy warm fragrance of my dish marries with the crisp evening air and musky odor of leaves once again underfoot.
This is the glorious bounty of autumn.
Lazy country landscape whizzes by. My pencil scratches, crosses Ts and swirls Ss. These are the vows I will share with my F in one week. In the presence of the people we love, gathered together to celebrate our union.
My heart sings, and my eyes overflow.
A low harmonic murmur buzzes next to me. A monk in turmeric robes is chanting. The reverberation of his voice off the glass is steady and beautiful.
This is what fulfillment feels like.
Just me and F, cruising down the highway. Car full of music, snacks, and overnight bags; my socked feet rest on the dashboard.
I’m spying on the families in neighboring cars, making fun of them all.
Identical families in identical vehicles running off to identical rental properties to have identical vacations. Dads with polo shirts and reflective sunglasses driving the family vehicle, while Mom rides shotgun, staring hypnotically ahead at the infinite road stripes. Uninterested kids melting from boredom in the backseat. An occasional disgruntled mother-in-law is sandwiched between her mouthbreathing grandkids in the backseat, boring a hole into the back of her disappointment of a son-in-law’s skull with her iron gaze. A family’s worth of bicycles jimmy-rigged to the back of the vehicle, impeding their rear view.
Cutting off drivers on the highway to hurry to some banal destination, just to eat overpriced rubbery seafood and subpar waffles, and sit on a lackluster beach while your kids lament about missing their carbon-copy friends. Take a few washed-out, blurry photos that end up sitting in a shoebox to collect dust until after the funeral.
In other words, livin’ the middle class dream.
“Are we gonna be like that someday?”
His right hand moves from the wheel to my knee and tenderly squeezes, eyes straight ahead. “Maybe.” Suddenly, a clueless errant driver weaves into our lane. F’s face hardens as he grips the wheel and hits the brakes to avoid them, all while muttering uncouth things in French. (Roughly translated, it’d be something like: “These unfortunate gentlemen are ill-informed about the art of driving; ’tis an act better left to those more capable of doing it.”)
I make a silly face at the driver as we pass them by, and I burst into laughter at their confused expression.
No, we’ll never be like them…
We arrive at Scampi, our friends’ home near the beach. When we pull up to the house, we’re greeted by Mama and Papa, holding bright-eyed Baby 3. Babies 1 and 2 run outside to greet us, in a dust storm of blonde hair, blue eyes, joyous shrieks, and general excitement at receiving visitors. Papa is happy to see F, to increase the testosterone-to-estrogen ratio in the house, and Mama is happy to chitchat with me in English. Fresh beverages fizz and glasses clink to herald our arrival. We catch up with our friends while Baby 3 coos and giggles, and Babies 1 and 2 twitter about in a show-and-tell flurry of sparkly princess stickers and bold finger paintings.
Dinnertime approaches, and our tummies growl. The men stride into the backyard to start the fire for our barbecue.
I hold a hand to my empty stomach and look out at F.
Someday, we know there’ll be something more in here.
A wild strawberry plucked from a vine in the garden, savored as I pass through on my way to work.
A finger of amber rum in the afternoon out on my terrace, with my feet up on the table.
A midnight homemade kebab and fries, a decadent treat. We sing “cheers” as we toast our meaty, saucy sandwiches together, and dip crisp fresh fries into mayonnaise and ketchup. Sinfully, deviously improper. The naughtiness of a midnight pig-out session, once in a blue moon. Not good for the heart, but good for the soul.
The pleasure on our friends’ faces as they taste my cooking; it was well worth adding that extra pat of butter, for a luxurious creamy texture.
A warm bowl of my butternut squash soup on a brisk morning, dusted with a pinch of cumin, fleur de sel, snipped fresh chives. Finishing with a dollop of cream gives an unctuous touch to a hearty lunch, creating an appetizing presentation.
The finishing touch: a gesture for pure pleasure, a reward for being human. Celebrating the artful, deliberate stimulation of our innate sensory pleasures. Indulgence that makes life deliciously beautiful.
As for the resulting light padding that these transgressions produce in the thigh-booty-stomach tri-zone area: I’ll walk it off later.
Mix, flood, wash
Swipe, blot, scratch
Too much water, muddy
Too much color, sloppy
Too much detail, cluttered
Swipe, blot, scratch
Imperfection is expected
F is in perfect repose next to me. Dawn’s blue light slips in from between the shades and brightens the hills and valleys of his face. I gently clasp his careworn hand, and he softly squeezes back.
He sits at his desk, engrossed. He has the same discerning look as his baby photo that sits just behind. That look, it sparks my core sense of loving urgency. I walk over, fold him in my arms, and inhale his scent. I whisper my words of love into his skin, radiant with his smell. This is home. His hand raises to meet mine, and they embrace.
He’s here. We love. Right now.
It’s said by people wiser than me,
That you are to declare
No less often than always
Before you can’t anymore.
Lying snuggled in the comforters, with double the space and pillows because F’s gone off to work. Bye sweetie, I’ll be having breakfast in bed… Sucka…
Going for a walk as the day starts warming up, basking in the best golden sunlight of the day.
Making thoughtful, well-prepared meals.
Taking that precious 3pm nap.
Tasting a fine Irish whiskey at noon if I feel like it.
Unburdened by the clock.
Deep breaths, birdsong.
Love, love, love.