33 - sardonic and sassy inamorata

One knows a good chef by the quality of his simplest dishes. Take for instance salmon in a light basil sauce. Most people think it's no big deal and put it on the menu. But frying or steaming a salmon just right and putting the right amount of salt and spices in the sauce is very difficult. In this recipe there is nothing to distract you. No design. No exotic ingredient. There’s only the fish. And the sauce. The fish and the sauce.

   —Martha Klein, Mostly Martha

~~~

Camille has a sweet home, a duplex with an option to buy, and had considered it when she and Martin were together. Of course, life took a turn, and she took a chance, and here we are.

We signed a one-year lease at a bargain basement price, in Del Mar. WTH!

~~~

Simplicity. How to live a contrary life? How to be genuine, honest, forthright and considerate without condescension and cruelty; without making fun of and belittling others? And when the asshole shows up in your life, how do you manage it?  Because yes indeed, the assholes are there; some more manageable than others. What to do, how to respond?

This freak is taking a queue from his sardonic and sassy inamorata. She’s as compassionate and caring a person as I’ve ever come across. So lively and clear seeing, and she’s only been on the planet 30 some odd, wise beyond her years; it’s as if human beings are an entertainment to her, so attentive and self-aware about her own foibles and imperfections, she looks out and decides she’s looking in the mirror, that this is all a carnivàle, and you do what you can, and you think about and reflect upon, and you find joy, and humor, and maybe you become a prankster, and you dance, oh yes, you dance, and you laugh, and you find work that suits your soul, employment that means something, has intrinsic value, grounds you, and you’re not afraid to be indignant or blown away by the cluelessness and ignorance of others, and you’re indignant because you see your own ignorance and cluelessness, a humility in this, and there you are, standing before an asshole, a good old, self-absorbed American, often successful, quite brilliant, and a touch greedy, and more than competitive and a little ruthless, and in the end, simply an asshole. How do you respond?

My old man would take a swing. Give it right back, and in a bit of self-righteousness, cold-cock the fucker. And you have to ask, is there another way?

~~~

We were planning the move, going through each other’s household things. What to keep, what to purge, and I’ve got a newly purchased set of pots and pans, an array of cooking utensils all bought on sale at Great News in Pacific Beach. I had thought I’d start cooking again once I left Maya. Years ago she had run me out of the kitchen. I think that may have been the first indication we were struggling. We had at one time worked close in and we were at ease, the conversations that came were spontaneous and a joy: a symphony of two, in concert with and making music. And of course you don’t recognize it then, the emerging disconnection, just one moment added to other moments that come. And you end up agreeing, one will cook, one will clean, and the togetherness takes another hit, and you stroll out and say, “Holler when it’s ready.”

In the kitchen you’ve got to be comfortable with the presence of the other, enjoy the close-in togetherness and collaboration. It becomes a slow dance, and when you’re connected, feeling loved and loving, you don’t get in each other’s way but you move in a rhythm that reflects what you like about them. Wherever you are, you know, whatever context, whatever dance floor you’re on, it’s about tuning in, becoming aware of them in a way that abandons thought, there’s an effortlessness in it, like when you’re out for a stroll, and the two individual strides become one, and again, it’s not a thought process but a natural coming together, you simply go in sync….

Sadly, we've been eating out, not cooking much.... Well, not so sad. We enjoy dining out, but it shouldn’t be all the time. And now, am all up in it, imagining a new day. Maybe a real return to the kitchen. Camille says, “These are nice. Mine not so much. Do you really cook?”

"Here and there. I’ve dabbled. Had intentions when I left University Heights, but, you know,…”

And I admitted to her that I had imagined a lot these past weeks and months, and one image in particular juiced me up. It’s a Saturday afternoon, she’s in our new kitchen, and she’s got all of her books spread out, she’s all focused and in it, nursing a double espresso, and I stroll in quietly and ask if she wants me to make risotto, “I’ve a grand mushroom risotto recipe,” and without looking up from her book, without thinking, she says, “That would be nice.” And I walk over, give her a kiss on the cheek, and she smiles, a sweet and simple smile.

You get a craving, and there’s something sublime about it, not a hurrying or rushing forward, but pure pleasure, the idea of it. Pouring a glass of Pinot, sipping slowly, and then assembling the meal. Risotto. It requires patience, and attentiveness, and as you tend to it, watching it emerge into the wondrous dish it is, adding stock, stirring, waiting,… adding stock, stirring, waiting,… adding stock, stirring, all the while sipping the Pinot, and it reminds you of how life can be, how to live and get things done, how to savor it, and the poets and writers you’ve studied and read come to mind, and you can hear them, collectively, that the sweet and simple joys come in taking the time, by degrees, step by step.

And near the end of the preparation, she finishes her studying, and she puts her books away and she comes back in the kitchen, am on the next to last stirring, and she comes in behind, puts her arms around my waist and gives me a hug, and I lean my head back, and she asks, “What can I do?”… and there it is. The symphony begins, the asparagus gets sliced, and salted, and the oven goes on, a little olive oil, and when they come out of the broiler, seared, blackened a touch, and tender, … and not one moment of haste, each step savored, enjoyed, and then you find yourself sitting down at the table, rustic bread, a Ciabatta, and balsamic with olive oil for dipping, and the clinking of glasses, the La Crema, a favorite since our meal at Jake’s, and you think, “It is so damned good to be alive.”

Have I said that before? Let me say it again, it is indeed a wonder and a delight, to be alive, to be in love,…