I have always loved books and movies in which food is a metaphor for our fragile and powerful human emotions. The more I get to know F., the more my life imitates art.
F. and I spent the summer sighing over fresh corn, cucumber, and watermelon. We shared an obsession with the mingling of boston lettuce, goat cheese, beets, figs, and raspberry vinaigrette. He introduced me to the first really good, succulent grilled meat I have ever tasted. I became a demanding fiend, relentlessly dragging raw meat to his house, and casting furtive glances towards his form as he coaxed complex flavors out of the grill.
We laid in bed recounting amazing tastes we’d encountered before we met, and plotted adventures to restaurants we want to share with each other.
We also shared horror stories: he has a neighbor who has eaten nothing but hamburgers since he was a kid; I once had a boyfriend who would not touch a vegetable and I had to learn to cook all over again, with nary an onion or a pepper. I now know the pleasure of an adventurous omnivore.
Our time together is elevated by the poetry of food, by savoring our mutual or differing sensory sensations whether sharing a peach or a feast. On the surface many would not think us compatible — an executive and a jazz singer?– but we both experience the world with activated senses, whether experiencing food or music or unexpected kindness.
What will autumn bring? Pork with cider reduction, little chicken potpies with butternut squash and mushrooms. Chili and stew. Our relationship has a life of its own and who knows what path it will take as summer morphs into fall morphs into winter, but surely we will welcome roasted root vegetables as sauvignon blancs give way to pinot noirs.
