CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ingredients
I tried to call home
from college every Wednesday around dinnertime. It was my father’s
early night at the store and he and my mother tended to be home.
One particular night, though, I called and got Iris on the other
end.
“Chase is in the
shower and your mom and dad decided to go out on a date,” she said.
“Your mother left us a pot roast for dinner.”
“A specialty of the
house.”
“So I’ve heard. Your
mom’s a pretty good cook.”
“She likes doing it
and we like eating it. It works.”
A Suzanne Vega album
was playing in the background. It had to be one of Iris’, as it
definitely wasn’t Chase’s kind of music.
“How’s the semester
going?” she asked.
“Great so far. I have
a lunatic philosophy teacher who’s sort of ‘all Kant, all the
time,’ and I finally had to give in and take the physics class I’ve
been avoiding since my freshman year. But my media classes are very
good. I especially like the documentary video course.”
“Do you make them or
watch them?”
“Make them and watch
them. The making part is the final.”
“Let’s see; you’re
going to do a video on John Belushi as the best suicidal comic of
his generation.”
“Actually, I was
thinking of doing it on you and Chase as the best
couple.”
“Best couple of
what?”
“Yet to be
determined. I haven’t finished my research.”
“Can you hang on a
second?” Perhaps a quarter of a minute passed and then Iris was on
the line again. “God, I love that part. The rim shots toward the
end of ‘Luka’ get me every time.”
I found myself
smiling broadly. “Are you coasting through the second half of your
senior year?”
“Semicoasting. I
actually have to work in my AP English and AP World History
classes. I’m also involved in the school play. We’re doing
Streetcar.”
“That’s serious stuff
for high schoolers.”
“The director wanted
to do Judgment at
Nuremberg.”
“Give me a
break.”
“I mean it. I think
the PTA talked him out of it.”
“Do you have a big
role?”
“Decent role. I’m
Stella.”
“You’re Stella?”
“Are you suggesting
that you don’t think I can handle the role?”
“You just don’t seem
to be the Stella type to me.”
“I guess we all have
our secrets.”
“Stella, wow. I can’t
wait to see it.”
“I’ll save you two on
the aisle.”
“One on the aisle
will be fine. Unless I’m taking Chase as my date.”
“I think he’ll be
waiting in the wings for me. So when are you coming down
again?”
I hadn’t actually
planned to come back to Amber anytime soon. I needed the weekend
time in the studio and there was the woman at the record store. But
when Iris asked, I realized that I really wanted to see more of her
and Chase.
“I was thinking about
coming down this weekend. Are you guys going to be
around?”
“Well, I can’t ever
be sure what Chase is going to want to do. For all I know, he could
be planning to go up to see you. But yeah, I think we’re going to
be around.”
“Great, we’ll hang
out.”
“Sounds good. Want me
to see if Chase is out of the shower yet?”
“No, it’s not
necessary. I’ll catch up with him on Friday. Just let him know I
called.”
The next time I went
up to Lenox, Iris and I spent the afternoon on our usual walk
through town. There was nothing redundant about this – there always
seemed to be something new going on – and it had become a very
pleasant ritual. On this particular trip, a farmers’ market had
opened and we browsed the local corn and zucchini, the wide array
of herbs, and the handmade breads, pies, and fresh
pastas.
“I’m making dinner
for you tonight,” I said as I reached for a summer
squash.
“You
cook?”
“I have cooked.”
“Successfully?”
“Triumphantly at
times. You obviously don’t know about me and the sandwich shop in
Columbus. And thanks for having so much faith in me, by the way.
Yes, I have cooked successfully and I’m going to do so for you
tonight.”
Not entirely sure
what I was planning, I wandered around the market gathering
ingredients for the meal. Other than my stint at that deli, I’d
never spent very much time in a kitchen, though I liked cooking and
I especially liked the satisfaction of making a meal for someone
else. I decided to keep it fairly simple, planning pasta with
yellow squash, tomatoes, and basil, and a salad, accompanied by a
baguette and a peach tart we purchased from the
bakery.
When we got back to
Iris’ house, I set to work immediately, chopping vegetables and
herbs, putting a pot of water on to boil. Iris opened a bottle of
wine for us and sat at the kitchen table watching me. I
accidentally put the squash into the pan before the oil and hastily
removed it before it stuck.
“Were you searing?”
Iris said playfully.
“I was screwing
up.”
“Is that part of the
recipe?”
I smirked at her and
she took a sip of her wine in an attempt to hide her
grin.
“You know, the last
time a man made dinner for me, I was sick for two days
afterward.”
“You hang around with
the wrong men.”
“So I’ve been
told.”
“It’s unlikely that
this meal will make you sick. It may make you lose your appetite,
but it won’t make you sick.”
“I’ll take my
chances. You look good at a stove. Almost like a
natural.”
“Was that meant to be
a compliment?”
“Absolutely. It
smells good, by the way.”
Twenty minutes later,
dinner was on the table. Iris seemed tickled when I set the plate
in front of her. The food turned out fine. Maybe even a little
better than fine.
“Um, delicious,” she
said. “Will you be making all of our meals from now
on?”
“Don’t count on
it.”
“Even if I compliment
you profusely?”
“Compliment me
profusely and I’ll think about it.”
Iris twirled a
forkful of linguine and said, “Nah, you’ll just get a big head.
We’ll eat out.”
We talked about
little things while we ate: reviewing the day, anticipating the
work challenges of the coming weekend, touching on items in the
news. Though this was the first time we’d had dinner in a kitchen
together, we fell into it like people who had been doing this kind
of thing for years.
Iris insisted on
cleaning up and I didn’t argue with her. While she did, I dialed up
the new Beck album on her iPod. When she was finished, Iris brought
in the remainder of the wine and sat with me on the couch. Other
than commenting on a couple of the songs, we didn’t talk at all
until the music ended.
“What should we do
tonight,” I said, looking over at the clock. It was just past 8:30.
We’d still have time for a movie or we could wait a while and head
to one of the clubs for some live music.
“I’m okay just
staying here,” Iris said.
Ever since I’d been
coming to Lenox, we’d always done things. The idea of simply
staying in her house felt foreign, as though she had said she
wanted to go line dancing or something. At the same time, it was
very appealing to think of putting on some more music, finishing
the wine, and either talking or not talking for the rest of the
night.
“You don’t mind?” I
said.
“I’m actually feeling
very settled tonight. Must have been the meal.”
“You’ll be closer to
a bathroom this way.”
“Yeah, I thought of
that, too,” she said, pushing my knee with a bare
foot.
I settled back into
the couch, not realizing until that moment that I’d been planning
to get up. As we listened to a Tim Buckley album recorded before
either of us were born, my thoughts wandered back to the
kitchen.
I started thinking
about what I would make the next time I cooked for
Iris.