Eating our Words

Start with a look-

Not too long, but not too short either.

Add three smiles

And a laugh.

Stir, and let rest until risen

Once risen, break the touch barrier

With soft, warm hands

And one spritz of cologne.

To finish:

Get her alone,

Look into her eyes and think

A thousand thoughts,

But don’t say a word!

Lean in, garnish with a brush of her cheek,

And enjoy.

“Rennet was first discovered by the Ancient Egyptians” the History Channel had proudly spouted to me a few hours earlier, but that was of no concern now. All I cared was that rennet makes cheese, which I need: cheddar, 20 ounces. It is, after all, half of Mac and Cheese, and that is what she loves. On the way back to my house I put on Miles Davis “Freddie Freeloader” to calm my nerves.

            I bend my knees to get eye level with the Pyrex measuring cup. I crack eggs as if they were made out of crystal. I taste the pasta every 30 seconds to keep it al dente. I fiddle with the roses in their vase, then switch the vase, load the CD player with the 4 albums I had chosen after hours of deliberation, and run upstairs to change my shirt and spray on some cologne just before the doorbell rings

            She sweetly coos about me giving up meat for the night for her, I shrug it off as nothing and immediately feel about 4 inches taller. We sit and she smiles. “Mac and cheese from scratch? Wow!” The dish is hot, creamy, rich and delicious. I beam with pride when she gets up for seconds and finishes that bowl. My smile is too big for my face.

            We cuddle up in front of the TV for a movie, and she slides her head onto my shoulder. My body keeps her warm. She places a finger on my chin and pivots my head to face hers. I stare into her eyes and I can see it just before we kiss: I’m one step closer to the perfect boyfriend.

Peanut butter,

You’re glossy and rich.

You are luscious;

You hold my lips in embrace

For minutes after the first taste.

7 grams of carbs, 8 of protein:

You’re so good to me.

Creamy is sensual

Crunchy- flirty.

What’s in a name? Everything!

Creamy?

Not “pureed” or “smooth”

Creamy-

That’s sexy.

You fill me completely.

Surround me, drown me in your love.

I lick you off the spoon

Pure, no accompaniment

But water.

My tongue slides into you

And you spill into my cheeks

And you land in my stomach

And I am happy.

It is Saturday morning in May and one young boy, about 7 or 8, stirs in the kitchen. The cold tile floor lightly stings his bare feet as he strides from refrigerator to cupboard to counter. The slap of his feet is the only sound in the house. The morning is cool and foggy for now, disrupted only by the calls of blue and yellow parrots. Later, the sun will burn off the marine layer and the day will bulge with bustle; there will be no parrots. Now, though, it is only him, them, and his whisk.

He is cracking eggs for buttermilk pancakes. He has done this before, but his relaxation cannot mask his concentration. He affords great importance to the simple project. Flour plops into the bowl, lightly billowing outwards. Buttermilk, vanilla extract, leavening, and sugar all go in, precisely measured by memory. His mother would happily make breakfast once awake, but he has his own reasons.

As the youngest sibling, he is often outshined. Luke is taller, stronger; he can reach the top shelf at the grocery store. Their parents rely on him more heavily. But in the morning, before anyone else, the boy can provide for him family. Just as the parrots find time to make their voices heard, so does he. It is not about getting attention or competing; the boy needs a way to show his family that he loves them. He finds it in one cup of flour and buttermilk, four tablespoons of melted butter, a tablespoon of sugar, half a teaspoon of vanilla extract, and half a teaspoon of double-acting baking powder. That makes them happy, and that is enough for him.

My first memory of food is broccoli. It was smothered in cheddar cheese, of course- the only way my father could get my brother and me to eat something so offensively green and nutritious. Dad poured the cheese sauce over the perky, armless green men and presented the plate to his 3 and 5 year-old judges. The air filled with anticipation.

WOW! This was something completely different! The broccoli burst with watery freshness on first bite, cutting through the rich, tongue-coating heaviness of the cheese which had been its downfall in the past. Cheese already had me in its corner, but now broccoli was winning me over too. I could not explain it. I knew that certain things were good together: peanut butter and jelly or chocolate and milk, but all of those things were good on their own too. What I was experiencing now was something bad (broccoli) and something good (cheese) making something great. It was like adding two and one and getting five. What a find!

After dinner we all sat smiling at one another. My parents had filled their obligations to feed their boys “fruits and veggies,” as we called them. My brother had filled himself with more cheese than the state of Vermont. I had filled myself, however, with fascination. My first discovery of complimentary flavors…

This is a true story: My brother, mother and I are in the kitchen, and rightly so. It is Christmas Eve. Tonight we will feast on beef tenderloin, mushroom galette, and crème brule, but for now we subsist on concentration. I hang over the stove, watching my mushrooms with the concerned care of a Jewish mother the night before her son’s bar mitzvah. My brother Luke is salivating and snacking. “Can I put more…” are the most common words with which he starts a sentence. He slathers duxcellles mixed with blue cheese ever thicker on the pan-seared beef before encapsulating it in puff pastry. My mother watches both of us as she makes crème brulée. She is relaxed and contemplative, the perfect compliment to my feverish intensity.

Of course our dishes come out differently; they are cooked in different styles. Luke’s tenderloin boastfully struts along the palette like a victorious general weighted down with medals. The constant addition of ever-stronger flavors lends itself to his loud, heavy dishes. By contrast, my galette is flavorfully delicate and balanced. All of the flavors in the dish match and compliment, none overpowering the others, a goal easily accomplished by someone as neurotic as I. I meditate on each ingredient before adding it, imagining the flavor developing from stovetop to tabletop. If the devil is in the details, then I waltz with him. My mom’s dish is well… perfect. She is neither excessive nor pedantic. Luke insists on more sugar for the top (“More crust is better!” he explains,) and my mom obliges only for his ramekin, a true peacemaker.

She eats her crème brulée quickly, then rests back to watch her sons eat.

My mom cooks not for ends or means, but for love. She loves us both, and now that opportunities to feed us come more and more sporadically she must seize her chances when she gets them. Love flows from every measurement and stir that she does, and this is why her food is always amazing. It tastes, or rather, feels like love.