"To everything, turn, turn, turn…”
I had been listening to that old Byrds single to excess after I got home, as the tides of my life shifted this way and that. Something about its groove lifted my spirits beyond the exuberant beat, and the lyric—well, that lyric morphed conveniently to signify any message or deed.
There was plenty of time to kill, as I put the trip behind me and sifted through its bulky residue. The volume of recipes I’d amassed was daunting, and for a while, I have to admit, it was relegated to a shelf in the kitchen, strategically out of eyesight. I didn’t go anywhere near the stove, fearing that a misfire might render the entire experience a megaflop. Instead, I reverted to old standbys, ordered in pizza, Chinese, anything that could be reconstituted in a microwavable bag.
Gradually, however, it was a time to build up, and, tentatively, uneasily, I began to cook again. Gnocchi to warm up, then a few pasta dishes, those pesky tartes Tatins, eventually duck. Carolyn came back into my life for a short time. I suppose she was curious about the journey’s effect on me, whether I found what I was looking for. Like everyone else, she was eager to know what I’d learned. A sampling of my culinary showpieces drew little in the way of response, aside from her observation that I’d become slave to the demon butter. Nothing I did measured up to that chunk of cheese. In any event, Debbie had been right: I deserved better, and after a while I put that entire episode behind me.
It was a time to cry, and a time to heal. Lily tended to me throughout two years of recovery, while I picked up and mended the pieces of my life. I tried dating a few women I met here and there, but no one seemed right and I let it drop. By now I’d learned enough to know that some combinations just don’t work. It’s no use trying to force them. Patience—I thought of Claudio and his long-simmering sauces. I decided to be content with what I had in life—my daughter, my writing, my cooking. My biography of the Beatles finally came out. Still, something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
In the midst of this flux, I got a call from Fred Plotkin, the gifted writer and a friend, who checked in from time to time. It had been two years since we’d last spoken, the usual chitchat about our work, new places we’d eaten. He’d served as my Italian food guru, so it was natural that he’d expect a recap of my trip. We met for dinner at one of those joints in Manhattan that everyone was talking about. But, hard as it is to believe, Fred wasn’t interested in food. There was someone he wanted me to meet. A woman.
I’ve sworn off, I should have replied. Matter of fact, I’m in a twelve-step program.
“She’s one of my closest friends,” he said. “Besides, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Several years, in fact.”
How odd. This was a man with whom I had but a passing professional relationship. He knew nothing about what I’d gone through, where I was in my life. It took incredibly large stones to think I’d welcome an unsolicited fix-up.
“I don’t introduce people often,” he went on, “but when I do, rest assured, it always works. Always.”
The man was a crackpot. I should have walked out or at least informed him of my new address: a leper colony off the coast of Honduras. Instead, I said okay. As in: “Okay, here’s my heart, just stomp on it now.”
Her name was Becky, and, as it turned out, it was a time to laugh, a time to sigh. She was a writer, of all things, talented and kind. She was also gorgeous, delightfully slender, and made it clear, right off the bat, that her figure demanded she eat three good meals a day. Oh, and in case Fred hadn’t already mentioned it, she loved food, loved the idea that a man would cook for her.
This was a trap.
Well, you know how it goes: One meal led to another. I cooked my ass off for that woman, whipped up everything I’d learned. Even my disasters had a satisfying, comic appeal. Becky was besotted, so she said; everything in my repertoire pleased her no end. Everything just worked. The kitchen at Arpège had nothing on us. From the beginning, our relationship had all the giddy fun of a peach blanc-manger at Moulin de Mougins, all the unforced compatibility of a simple Italian sauce. Magically, my life started to turn around. My entire outlook took on a sanguine glow. I was calm in the kitchen, handled the chores with confidence and poise. It helped to know that she appreciated everything I made. Alas, she lived an hour away, but, like Claudio, nothing interfered with my making that trip.
Which brings me to this point: Relationships this late in life are like soufflés. They need the right ingredients to start with, lots of loving care, and the wisdom to realize that if you have to work too hard at it, the air goes out. Otherwise, as every idiot knows, you just have soup.