Chapter 30

Meat sizzled. The pasta was laid out. Chesses were waiting. Once my sauce was done, I’d be well on my way to some comfort food.

It wasn’t like things were bad. That I was in desperate need for some kind of emotional pick me up. But, at the grocery store earlier in the day, I found myself picking out the ingredients for a good, home-made lasagna. I followed my stomach, which lead me to my present state of cooking meditation. Seemed like a good way to take a break.

The summer was moving by more quickly than I wished. Almost half way done, half way to picking up and leaving. For as long as I had looked forward to change, I now found myself feeling quite the opposite. I felt, dare I acknowledge it, a sense of contentment with the status quo. Work with freedom, a place to myself, Julie and Emily to hang out with. Maybe simple was enough. Maybe this was enough.

I added onions, stirred. Garlic salt, pepper went in. Sweet and tangy smells filled the air. A bit more comfort to settle an increasingly unsettled heart. A nagging feeling that, one day soon, things would be shifting, cracking, crashing. And that it was inevitable.

The research work had been a welcome distraction. Each new paper, a piece of candy to be digested, enjoyed. It was ideal; learning with purpose, without the pressure of some eventual evaluation. Mr. Becker carried that responsibility. I just assisted in his preparation.

Tomatoes, cubed, wet and glistening slid into the pot. Fresh basil, oregano. A bit of chicken stock and set to simmer. Dishes washed up, and an hour or so before I could move to the next step. This was a dish of patience, where the effort would result in a great deal of satisfaction, if delayed. I moved to my couch to read.

I was lost somewhere between the pages before me and the quiet vocals floating from my stereo when a rap against the door broke in. Solid, repeating several times. A loud staccato that was unfamiliar. It wasn’t Emily or Julie, that was for sure. And I wasn’t expecting anyone else.

I looked through the peephole, hoping that, in the case of some random solicitor, I had done so quietly enough to then ignore them. A warped portrait of my boss confronted me instead.

Confused, I opened the door.

“Hi…um, hello, uh...Mr. Becker.”

“Hi there. Sorry, to stop by unannounced. Am I interrupting?”

Leaning against the door, a bit dumbfounded, I blocked most of the opening. Not moving for a second made him shift uncomfortably. My manners kicked in while I, seemingly outside my body, looked on as my two very separate worlds collided.

“Oh…oh, no. Um…uh…why don’t you come in.”

I moved aside, letting him pass, and motioned him towards the couch. I went straight to the kitchen, checking on the sauce and giving my self a second to regroup. I offered him a drink, and stirred the sauce a few times, watching him look around my room from my place at the stove. He had zeroed in on several photos I had of the family, the few times we had been able to get everyone together for a nice portrait.

I moved to the couch with the cursory glass of water everyone accepts. He turned to me as I sat down, waiting for his next move. Or an explanation for his arrival. Something.

“So, you cook as well?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

He laughed. “Well, it would depend on how you define cooking.”

“And how would you define it?”

“Personally? If I were to call myself a cook, then my main utensils would be a phone book and a twenty dollar bill.”

“There’s nothing wrong with some good take-out.”

“Sure. But it doesn’t mean I don’t envy those who doing the making. I keep telling myself I’ll get around to learning. But, so far, boiling water is about all I’ve really mastered. And definitely nothing close to whatever you’re making. It’s a heady smell coming from your kitchen.”

“I thank you for the compliment, but I promise you, it’s nothing complicated. Actually, really simple. I just like making stuff myself – when I have the time. And I’ve had plenty lately. So why not, right?”

He nodded, smiled, but seemed distracted as he looked in my direction. He stared as though he didn’t recognize me. It made things even more uncomfortable.

Trying to ignore his presence, or the weight of his stare, I settled on my immediate task at hand. Sauce at ready, ingredients laid out, I had something to make. The distraction worked wonders.

“So did you just happen to be in the neighborhood?”

“I guess you could say that. I was taking a breather from work.”

“Coffee shop?”

“Where else?”

My hands moved quickly as I spoke. The repeated patterns of layering, sauce, pasta, cheese were soothing, and allowed me to ignore, for a moment, the dominating presence in the other room. Focused on the task at hand, I let the conversation slip.

He took my silence as an invitation, joined me at the counter. I felt his gaze as he watched me ladle the last of the sauce onto my creation. I waited for him to say something, waited while I sprinkled cheese across the top, waited while I turned around and check the oven, waited while I slipped my casserole dish into its temporary womb. Still nothing.

I turned around, leaned on the counter. He had taken a seat on one of the stools, leaned over a bit, as though we were in a crowded bar, me his bartender of choice.

“It’s really not that fascinating.”

“Actually, it is. Like I said, cooking has been a passive experience at best. It’s rare that I get to observe the process up close.”

“And do you plan on changing that?”

“That, and a few other things.”

“Good for you. All it takes is one good meal made by your own hands, and you’ll be hooked.”

“Confident words for someone who obviously knows what they are doing.”

“I’ve had my share of inedible experiments.”

“I doubt it.”

“No catastrophes, I’ll admit, but some questionable choices. But you got to try, right?”

“Yeah, you do.”

With that, he lean in, placed his hand on the side of my cheek and pulled me in.