The dishes weren’t much since I’d tidied most of the cookware while waiting for him to arrive. We loaded the dishwasher and hand-washed the pots and pans.
“You’re making yourself indispensable,” I said. “It’s only going to make this harder.”
Neil gave the counter a final swipe with a dishcloth. “Would you rather I stop?”
“No.”
“I’m done anyway.” He put the cloth down, faced me, and encircled my waist with his hands.
I leaned into the kiss. Neil held me tight, a hand on my waist, the other cupping my cheek. I tasted salt and knew that at least one tear had escaped.
Neil pulled away and dried my eyes, wiping the tear from my face tenderly. “No crying,” he said gently. “Do you want to pray?”
“Sure,” I said. And we spent a few quiet moments asking the Lord for his guidance, for patience, for peace.
At the end, I simply hugged him and let his shirt absorb any wetness. He stroked my hair, whispering soothing southern endearments into my ear.
Several such embraces later, Neil walked out my front door.
I retreated to my bed, shoulders shaking with sobs. I prayed for peace, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t devastated.
The tradition of Italian cooking is that of the matriarch. This is the cooking of grandma. She didn’t waste time thinking too much about the celery. She got the best celery she could and then she dealt with it.
—MARIO BATALI
I watched as my mom settled into her chair, like a queen settling into a throne, and allowed the chemo drip to be set up around her.
Sophie had been banned from the clinic the week before; she had bullied one of the nurses to tears. We had already scheduled the session to coordinate with my lunch schedule that Tuesday, without knowing that my lunch schedule was about to get more flexible.
But I was glad to be there, keeping Mom company as she allowed the poison to drip into her veins, making her both more and less sick as the days wore on.
This also meant that she had me all to herself for an extended period of time, and she meant to be resourceful with her allotment.
“We will talk about your leaving your job, but first tell me about this man Neil, ma biche,” she said. “He seemed very fond of you.”
“He’s a good man, Maman. He’s on the plane home now.”
She patted my hand. “You never enjoyed absences.”
“No.”
“But what is he like, this Neil?”
“He’s kind and smart. Very smart. And he … he sees people, really notices them, gets them. He sees me. And Gigi likes him,” I added.
“Bah.” She waved a hand. “Gigi likes everyone.”
“Not Sophie so much.”
“True. But then, it was mutual, non?”
“How did you decide you wanted to be with Papa?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “I think the women in our family tend to fall in love with very strange men.”
“Caterina and Damian are a natural fit,” I said.
“She got that from her father’s side of the family. Or a fluke—je ne sais pas. Sophie chose Nelson”—she shrugged—“and you have your Neil. And I have your father—oh how we argued when we first met!”
“Different than now?”
She considered this. “About the same. But I was not used to it, naturellement. At home, all the boys agreed with me because I was beautiful. Mais oui—c’est vrai. I was beautiful, and I met your father on the plane to America. And he argued with me the whole flight.”
“Are you sure you weren’t arguing with him?”
“Quite sure.”
“Ah.” I restrained a smile.
“I left France to work in America, and I fell in love with an Italian in the process. My papa was not happy, not at all. Maman made him come and visit and meet your father. I would have married him either way, of course. But it was nice for my papa to come and pretend to be pleased.”
“But Grand-père came around, didn’t he?”
“Eh,” she said with a shrug. “He liked that your father made me happy.”
“When you weren’t arguing.”
“Oh, even then,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
“So when you say the women in our family—did Grand-mère fall in love with a man her family disapproved of?”
“She told me once there was a man before my father, a man she loved very much. I was in my twenties and wanted to know more, but she had her secrets. I assume her family did not approve—they were very proper. But she was happy, I think, in the end.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Who can know? And you”—she slid a glance at me—“had your Éric.”
My mouth fell open. “How—”
“How did I know?” She threw me a reproachful look. “Ma biche, I am your mother. I know everything.”
“Does Nico—”
“Your brother has many talents, but observation has never been one of them. Not subtlety either. If he knew, we would know.”
I relaxed, but only a little. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Éric is doing well at his restaurant,” she said gently.
“So he did open one?”
Her brows furrowed. “I thought all you young people kept track of one another on the Google.”
I opened my mouth and closed it. “Um … sometimes. But I didn’t, not with Éric. I … I couldn’t.”
“He opened a Moroccan fusion restaurant in Seattle.”
“Oh.”
“Tahmira, it is called. It’s small, but doing well.”
“I’m glad. I’m really, really glad.”
She patted my cheek. “He wasn’t going to stay at Nico’s restaurant forever. I am sorry that he broke your heart, though.”
“He didn’t break my heart, Mom.”
“Non?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. At least at the time it seemed worse that Nico’s restaurant closed.”
“Nico learned things from L’uccello Blu, things he needed to learn. Any experience that ends in knowledge is not a waste. And now he has the new restaurant, and you have your Neil.”
A smile stretched across my face at the thought. My Neil. He and I had been texting before his flight from Portland to Atlanta; I hoped to hear from him before he made his connection to Memphis.
I missed him terribly.
“Did Grand-mère ever tell you anything else about her sweetheart?”
Maman thought for a moment. “I remember thinking they must have cooked together. I know there was one of her cooking instructors she was very close to. I don’t know if it was the same man or not.”
I ventured another question. “Did she say a name?”
Another moment of reflection. “I do not remember a name. But she spoke of him fondly. Why the interest?”
“It’s romantic, don’t you think?”
“Good girl. You take after the French side. Italians are so bad at secrets affairs. Bad at secrets altogether—they’re terribly indiscreet.”
“The Mafia seemed to figure it out well enough for a while.”
She glared at me. “If they were so good at keeping secrets, they wouldn’t have had to kill people.”
I conceded the point.
“And the newspaper?” she continued. “You are glad to be done?”
“I am … I think. It was time.”
She shook her head. “You looked so elegant on television.”
“Thank you. I felt sick the whole time.”
“Oh, I could tell.” She patted my hand. “Will you be happy at Nico’s restaurant?”
“I hope so,” I said, and I meant it.
Dear Juliette,
Thank you for a wonderful time in Portland. It’s early in the morning and I know you’re asleep, but I wanted to write to you since I couldn’t pick up the phone (at least not without waking you up).
I’m home, but it feels even less like home than ever. I miss you. I miss your smile and the
way you held my hand. I miss talking to you.
(I miss kissing you too, but is it ungentlemanly to say so?)
Sorry if that sounds weird and mushy. I’m not great at romance, unless it involves introducing one strain of bacteria to another. That, I’m good at (though it’s been a while, so I might be rusty).
I wish I had more to say, but after a day of flying, I came home, watched a few recorded episodes of Top Gear, and went to bed. At the office, I will be expected to be able to string sentences together—or at least socially correct greetings. (Though in truth, people often have very low expectations toward the social abilities of doctors. The show ER perpetuated that, unfortunately.)
Do you have time to chat tonight—eight your time? I look forward to hearing your voice.
Neil
Dear Neil,
Thank you for such a lovely note—certainly worth waking up for. I miss kissing you too—is that unladylike? Probably. But it’s true. I also miss cooking with you, walking with you, getting to see you face to face. As much as I love your words, I love your presence most of all.
As far as long-distance relationships go—well, there are moments when I don’t know what I was thinking. Those are the same moments when I feel so desperately thankful for meeting you, for having you in my life. But can I say/write something cynical? Here’s my observation about long-distance relationships—they’re basically an interpersonal game of chicken.
Granted, I don’t say this from personal experience, but do you see what I mean? You keep driving, driving, and driving until someone flinches. And either you flinch right, and someone moves and you’re together. Or you flinch left and someone calls it quits.
Where does that leave us? I really don’t know. Do we ease up on the gas? Do I stop using driving metaphors???
To be fair, the driving metaphors are possibly your fault. I found myself watching some Top Gear on Netflix. I laughed and enjoyed it, just as much as you said I would. So am I a true “petrolhead” because I drive an Alfa Romeo? You tell me. That car spends so much time falling apart that I have no idea how it could be true, but if the experts say so …
As much as I want to hear your voice, I invited Linn and Clementine (my roommate, whom you met) over for a movie tonight to distract me from my sorrow. Can we chat earlier, maybe? Linn’s headed over between 6:30 and 7. Is 8 your time possible? Can we just switch the time zones?
(A last thought—if anything, Grey’s Anatomy may have convinced America that doctors are in fact rather verbose. Do you think the two shows have canceled each other out?)
Juliette
Dear Juliette,
Chat tomorrow? I’ll let you enjoy your night with your friends.
Just don’t be too sorrowful—everything’s going to be okay.
Neil
I had a wonderful time that night with Clementine and Linn.
Linn arrived glowing with the reality of her newly reinstated job. “I don’t have to blog!” she said. “I can’t even imagine explaining the point of that to my mother.”
Clementine made Bavarian sugar cookies, and then we watched Stranger than Fiction. After the movie, we sat around and chatted, feet up on the furniture, plates and glasses everywhere. Gigi lay asleep on the floor, having long given up on the prospect of a proper tug-of-war session.
When there was a break in conversation, I told Linn about Neil, and we all giggled together even as I wished he was nearer.
Clementine told stories about working for Grand-mère, and Linn caught me up on the last twenty-four hours of office gossip.
Around nine o’clock, my phone dinged with a text from Neil.
Thinking about you. Hope you’re not too sorrowful.
Chat with you tomorrow—have a good night, Jules :-)
I smiled and texted him back.
Not too sorrowful. Having a lovely time eating cookies, actually.
By the time you see me next, I’ll look even more like Nigella Lawson.
Another ding.
Googled Nigella Lawson. Not concerned.
I giggled and put the phone down again; when I looked up, I found Linn and Clementine staring at me.
“Don’t worry about us,” Clementine drawled. “We’re still here. Watching you text your boyfriend.”
I blushed at the word but couldn’t argue. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was a second away from texting my husband anyway,” Linn said.
Clementine shook her head. “You ladies and your relationships,” she said.
I didn’t say anything. If Nico was smart at all, Clementine wouldn’t be single for long.
BAVARIAN SUGAR COOKIES
Here’s the thing—there’s not exactly any such cookie as a Bavarian sugar cookie. But it’s such a charming part of the movie that I’ve gone along with it—we’ll consider them Bavarian inspired. In any case, these cookies are more flavorful than most sugar cookies you’ll get your hands on.
For the cookies:
½ cup unsalted butter (pasture butter is nice if you can get your hands on it)
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 tablespoon cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon sea salt
For the icing:
1 pound powdered sugar
¼ cup salted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Enough cream to reach desired consistency
Sift flour, baking powder, and salt together.
Cream butter with sugar for 5 minutes, until butter is pale and fluffy. With the mixer running on medium speed, add egg, cream, and vanilla.
Add flour mixture slowly, blending until fully incorporated.
Allow dough to chill overnight.
Preheat oven to 350°F. Roll dough out a little at a time on a lightly floured pastry cloth. With cookie cutters, cut dough into shapes. Bake on a parchment paper–lined baking sheet for 5 minutes or until the edges just become golden.
For the frosting, beat butter until fluffy. Add the sugar in small amounts, and use the cream to adjust the texture as necessary.
Frost with a wide spatula once the cookies are cool. Once the frosting has set, store cookies between sheets of waxed paper.
Makes about 36 cookies.
You can never have enough garlic. With enough garlic, you can eat The New York Times.
—MORLEY SAFER
Weeks passed. Preparations for the restaurant took over my life, but by now, though, I was hooked. As every piece of the restaurant fell into place, I felt my excitement grow.
The night of the trial dinner, I made time over lunch to tap out an e-mail to Neil—there would be no time at all for the rest of the night, but I couldn’t not write.
Dear Neil,
Here’s the thing—I really like writing to you. Is that okay? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy hearing your voice and seeing you in person, but there’s something about being able to write to you and receive an e-mail in return. I guess I’m addicted to your words.
I hope you don’t mind.
Lately I’ve been driving out to several of the farms and wineries in Donald, Brooks, Newberg, Canby, and Wilsonville in my “free time.” I chat with farmers, I sample produce, I discuss farming techniques. The relationship is important. (Come to think of it, I should stage a photoshoot with Nico and a few of the farmers for the restaurant entryway. Call it smart PR.)
I take Gigi with me when I go. She stays in the car and presses her nose to the window. (I’ve got the window nose prints to prove it!) I swear, I can practically see the visions of sheep chasing dance in her head, though she wouldn’t turn down a chance to run through the strawberry fields with the wind blowing through her ears.
I mean—who would?
Hope you’re well and settled into your regular schedule—I’m terrible at getting over jet lag. Jet lag and daylight savings. Missing you very much, to the point that I�
�m wondering if maybe that statement should go without saying, lest I sound overly repetitive. It’s still true, though.
Yours, Juliette
Frank Burrows, Linn, my parents, and I waited at the long table in the dining room. While I couldn’t speak for my compatriots, I was hungry—and I hoped the rest of them were too because a lot of food was about to emerge from the kitchen. Knowing that Nico and Adrian would be busy plating in the kitchen, I’d hired Chloé for the evening to carry a tray back and forth. Earlier, we’d practiced the art of carrying a tray with three plates until she wielded it like a pro. Nico would write down what each item contained, and Chloé would read off the list.
For the occasion, she’d decided to wear all black with an apron tied around her waist.
I had a hunch that, at some point, she would ask for a tip.
A mix of Over the Rhine, Norah Jones, and Iron and Wine played in the background. The five of us settled into our seats.
Over the next two hours, we sampled from cheese plates, charcuterie platters, salads, roasted vegetables, tarts, and two risottos.
I knew we were nowhere near done, but I was glad I’d worn a stretchy, forgiving dress.
Next came the pastas, spring vegetables tossed with prawns and cavatappi, a beautiful macaroni and cheese, and a lasagna with duck ragù.
It didn’t end there—Chloé began to bring out the meats—a beautiful pork loin in a hazelnut cream sauce, a charming piece of bone-in chicken breast coated in cornflakes, a peppery filet mignon, and a generous slice of meat loaf with a tangy glaze. My favorite was the duck in marionberry sauce—the skin had been rubbed with an intoxicating blend of spices, the meat finished with a sweet, tangy sauce. It tasted like summer and Oregon all at once. We planned to open in mid-August, so the duck with fresh berries would be a perfect item for the opening menu.
While I took measured bites from most of the plates, I kept the duck near and continued to enjoy the complex flavors offered by the spices and berry.
Next came the desserts, which Clementine brought out herself.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 23
