Wooed, by a Man and a Meal

One evening last summer I was wooed, by a man and by a meal.

Now I have been cooked for by a lover before, but it hasn’t happened often. When it comes to my romantic relationships I’ve mainly been the chef. Occasionally I’ve shared the kitchen, and even more occasionally I’ve been guest at the table, but such moments have been like lunar eclipses—infrequent and worth noting.

• Mountain climber boyfriend JB and I spent little time indoors and even less time in a kitchen, though we whipped up many a pot of spaghetti over a campstove at high altitude.

• E cooked for me only once—an incredible dish of onions, peppers, and fresh abalone that we had dived for off the Northern California coast. I will forever be sad that I failed to procure that recipe before we parted ways.

• J loved good food but his was a world of restaurants. And he was such a picky eater it wasn’t even fun to cook for him (I knew then that it wasn’t for the long haul).

• Dearest A claimed to be inept in the kitchen, but once busted out with roast chicken and a salad dressing that contained lime and beer and which I will forever be trying to recreate.

But nothing came close to the experience of last summer.

The setting was a cabin in Tahoe. The man in question was someone I had met through work. There had been two weeks of flirty emails, a few late night phone conversations, and one long evening of drinking wine and dallying under the August shooting star showers at Squaw Valley, where I was participating in a writing conference. Things were in the early stages still, delicious uncertain possibility and sweet nervousness. The conference ended on a Saturday morning and M had invited me over to his cabin afterwards.

An afternoon of cocktails on the deck and a sunset walk segued into dinner. M had prepped everything before I arrived, all the ingredients pre-chopped and in containers in the fridge. I sat on a barstool at the island and watched as he assembled the meal, like watching a cooking show. I wasn’t allowed to help at all. I was to enjoy my drink as he mixed and stirred and seasoned and the meal came together.

Now I love to cook for others. I love planning out what I think they might like. I love gathering all the ingredients together, going through the preparation and cooking process and placing it in front of them. My care and affection for them, on a plate. To have someone do that for me—to have him do it in front of me—was an unexpected pleasure. There were butterflies in my stomach and I nearly squirmed from the sheer delight of it all.

And that was even before I tasted anything.

The starter was artichoke soup. I had mentioned my lifelong affection for a certain cream of artichoke soup at Duarte’s Tavern, in the tiny coastal town of Pescadero, and M had made me artichoke soup—pale green, creamy, and smooth. It wasn’t as good as the Duarte’s version—nothing is as good as Duarte’s soup, they are surrounded by acres of artichoke fields—but the fact that he had made note of a tossed off comment and thought to make the soup of my desire, that was worth savoring.

Next came an exquisite rendition of a tomato bread salad. This is a favorite of mine, though M did not know it. He made his differently than I do. While I’ve always cut my tomatoes and bread into cubes, he tears his, leaving a rustic edge to the bread that was far better at soaking up the delicious tomato juices. And watching the tomato juices drip through strong fingers as he worked his way through a bowl of heirloom yellow and red fruit, well, that was nice too.

But the main dish, ah the main dish was heaven itself. Thin strips of salty prosciutto danced with the tang of lemon zest. Dark salty olives—sexy in the way Sophia Loren is sexy, full of earthiness and knowing— lay tangled up in the skeins of delicate angel hair pasta, the warmth of the pasta intensifying the flavors. It was moist and pungent and full of unexpected textures and tastes. It was divine.

The wine was good, the candles burned low, and we ate, and sighed, and ate some more.

And the next evening, when we had to make the four-hour drive back to the city in separate cars, M packed up the leftovers for me, putting a fork in case I got hungry halfway home. I knew then that, like this recipe, he was worth keeping around.



PASTA WITH LEMON, PROSCIUTTO, AND OLIVES
Adapted from Bistro Cooking, by Patricia Wells

1/8 cup lemon juice
Salt & pepper
¼ cup mild olive oil
¼ tsp sugar
1 tsp fresh thyme (can be omitted; this would be preferable to using dried thyme)
12 slices prosciutto cut into thin strips
½ cup black olives (M uses Niçoise olives, when unavailable he substitutes Kalamata)
Zest of 1 ½ to 2 lemons (how much of a lemon-head are you?)
1/2 lb thin pasta—angel hair or capellini

Whisk the lemon juice, a large pinch of salt, sugar, and olive oil together until blended. Add fresh thyme and pepper to taste. Set aside.

Zest the lemon (I do not have a good relationship with the zesting tool--I prefer to peel the lemon with a vegetable peeler, careful not to press too hard and get the white pith, and then slice these strips into the thinnest ribbons of lemon peel that I can).

Mix the prosciutto (I cut each thin strip lengthwise and then across the middle), olives, and lemon zest together in a serving bowl or platter (platter is easiest for mixing and really shows off the dish). Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Cook pasta until al dente, drain well, and add to the serving dish. Pour dressing over warm pasta mixture and toss gently until all the ingredients are evenly incorporated (it’s easiest to mix if you add the pasta in three equal portions, pouring a little dressing over after each addition). Serve warm, making sure that each plate receives an equal amount of the ham, lemon zest, and olives. Serves two as a main course, multiply as needed.

Eat slowly, by candlelight.