It's been awhile. (But not gonna write about "why I haven't been writing"--how tedious).
Taking a writing class the next couple months, deciding to get serious, see where it goes. First assignment: describe a physical activity I love such that the reader can imagine it. Hope I succeeded.
And yes...as my girlfriends already know, a supporting player has rejoined the stage.
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I glance at the clock…almost 2:30 already. I should get started.
I walk to the fridge, open the door, kneel down to the vegetable bin, start shuffling through my palette…yep, need the mushrooms, pull those out…collard greens too and the meyer lemon of course—should I make that first? Yeah, I’ll make it first—can re-heat later. Close the bin, look through the rest of the shelves…tofu, check, fresh dill, check, sour cream and crème fraiche—they should stay cold for now.
Stand up, set everything on the counter, walk over to the onion bin, sort through, pulling out two shallots and a head of garlic.
Wait, I need some company. Music? Or a podcast? Definitely too early for a glass of wine, my other cooking companion. Decide Dan Savage is in order—get my laptop, arrange it on a spare bit of counter. Discovered him five or six months ago and have methodically cycled through his back library ever since, in the process developing a bit of a fag hag crush on this highly entertaining sex advice columnist. He’s wonderfully educational when you’re going through your 20s in your 40s.
Apples next…hate peeling apples, but they are a key part of apple crisp. Better butter the baking dish too. Cut the meyer lemon in half—it’s a somewhat wrinkled specimen still leftover from the bag I brought home from Cali after Thanksgiving—squeeze some juice on the peeled, cored, sliced apples, then peel a couple more. Ick—this one’s got a bad spot, into the compost it goes. Throw in some cinnamon, a bit of sugar, oh some cornstarch too, maybe some ginger and definitely nutmeg (freshly grated, of course). Start cutting the rest of the lemon into teensy pieces (ouch! it stings!), throw into the apple mixture and pour the whole mess into the buttered dish. Then make the topping—can’t go too far wrong with brown sugar, chopped pecans, cinnamon, a bit of flour and lots o’ butter. I slowly massage the butter in with my fingers, until it’s all smushed together—kinda messy, but kinda fun too.
And into the oven it goes.
Yum.
I take a break, listen to Dan for a minute—yeah, this girl definitely needs to dump the guy…damn, almost getting to where I can predict most of his answers. Wish he’d been around when I was young, might have saved me a lot of grief. (Who am I kidding? Thought I knew everything.)
Look at the time—nearly 4. Picking Cub up around 5:40…unless he misses the train. Always a possibility.
Still haven’t wrapped my head around being with him again. It feels good and right…but only because I’m ignoring my rational self, trusting my intuition. Still getting comfortable with ‘not knowing’ and living in the present tense.
My old approach didn’t turn out so well though, so I’m game. Scary sometimes though.
Back to dinner. I rather think he’ll love this tofu mushroom stroganoff (what is it with me and vegetarians?) Couldn’t find any one recipe I was happy with, so triangulating between three. Another part of the new me—I used to be a total slave to the recipe.
My cooking’s never been better.
Drain the tofu, wrap in paper towels, set aside. Then start dealing with the mushrooms…shitakes first (save the stems, maybe I’ll make a broth), then the crimini. Wash, slice, wash and slice…it’s a ton but they cook down.
What’s going on in his head? He wouldn’t schlep out to Jersey if he wasn’t into me (no Manhattanite ever does)—but is he going to have another intimacy freak out and end it?
It’s loss—not intimacy—that scares me.
Of course either of us can end it any time, that’s the deal with non-committed relationships. Hell, it’s always the deal, even with marriage—I didn’t let 17 years hold me back from leaving.
Not going to have much of a life if I never risk another loss.
The timer goes off. Pull the crisp out, take in a big inhale of apple-cinnamony goodness.
So what changed in his head from last summer to now? And why doesn’t he see me as long-term? My age? (I turn 43 in a week—gulp.) Understandable—despite all the culture’s cougar talk, the older woman/younger guy thing still brings up issues. I’ll ask.
Dan wraps up another podcast while I start peeling garlic and chopping shallots…time for that glass of wine? Only hesitate a second before pouring.
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