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At once a necessity and an art, food provided sustenance for both the body and soul. This meal, prepared for one occasion had been transformed by Simon’s skill and creativity into something that was healing me even while my wounds should have still been exposed and raw. It startled me to recognize how his attention and consideration warmed me when I hadn’t even been aware I was cold. It made me long to do the same for him, to find out more about this talented man and his passions.
Maybe it was a reaction to Richard. I knew things about him, of course, but I had never known how he felt. We said the expected things to each other — I love you, take care, how was your day, what do you think about…whatever happened to be in the news that day — but never asked what dreams we’d had as children, which version of the ocean — stormy and gray or calm and blue — filled us with the most joy, or how the sight of a rainbow made us feel. Did he make a wish as I did when he saw a shooting star? Or did he only see it as a piece of the universe’s flotsam burning away as it passed through the earth’s atmosphere?
I felt certain Simon would do the former and couldn’t stop myself from asking him.
Simon grinned at me. “I always admire the beauty of it. It makes me think about the power of fire to transform a bit of rock into something spectacular. And then I make a wish.” He grin turned shy, and he glanced down at the plate of brined mushrooms. “I saw one last night.”
“What did you wish for?” I was captivated by the way he wouldn’t meet my eye, and then by the blush that rose to his cheeks once again.
“If I tell you that, it won’t come true, will it?” He gathered up our plates and put them in the sink, then carried the cutting board on which he’d assembled the ravioli to the stove. One by one, he dropped them into the pot of water he’d had boiling on the stove.
“What do you feel when you eat your own food?” I asked, putting aside my intrigue in Simon’s wishes, and returning to my previous thought.
With his back to me, Simon inclined his head toward the stove, and I wondered if he was going to ignore my question while he poked at the ravioli in the water.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I think I’m so focused on how the flavors go together, how close it came to what I thought it would be in my head, what the effect of the presentation is, that I don’t think I’ve ever considered how it makes me feel. Unless it’s disappointed in the result.” He tilted his head the other way, then reached for the slotted spoon and began pulling ravioli packets out of the water and placing them in a strainer. “I do think about the effect my food will have on the people eating it, though, how it will make them feel, what experience I want them to have had at the end of the meal.” Simon tossed a glance at me over his shoulder and grinned again. “What they’ll say about me on Yelp.”
“I promise to give you a full five stars,” I said, holding up my hand as if taking a solemn vow.
His attention returned to plating the pasta and drizzling a sauce over it. He scattered shredded cheese on top before bringing it to the island.
“So, what experience did you want me to have with this dish?” I asked as I lifted my fork.
Again, Simon paused before answering, and I wondered how often he got asked questions like these. I quite liked the idea that I was making him think differently than he had before, consider his own creations in a new light. Perhaps that was the professor in me. Before I spent more time dealing with administrative issues than in the classroom, I’d enjoyed teaching. I honestly had little patience with my colleagues who considered the students a necessary inconvenience.
“Why don’t you taste it and tell me what experience you have,” Simon finally responded as he lifted his own fork.
“Only if you tell me yours,” I said. “Not what you were looking to achieve, but how the food makes you feel.”
I thought I detected a note of trepidation in Simon’s expression, but it disappeared as he grinned again and nodded. I decided I liked Simon’s smiles. They made him look almost elf-like, mischievous and a little bit devious as well.
We both used the sides of our forks to slice off a corner of one of the ravioli packets and raised the bite to our mouths at the same time. With a small salute to each other, we both tasted the new dish.
The warmth of the creamy sauce hit me first. It was smooth, with a hint of brandy. That sensation was followed by the velvety texture of the pasta, it’s slight resistance when I chewed, and then the garlicy brine of whatever Simon had used as his filling. The whole thing made my mouth come alive and my body hum with pleasure. Again, the flavors built on what had come before and added new notes, this time of richness and…slight sweetness. I savored the complexity of textures and tastes, then went back for another bite.
The sauce reminded me of a lobster dish my grandmother used to make, and the taste and texture of the filling and pasta had me thinking about the summers I’d spent at her house on Cape Cod. Picking blueberries, sailing, and clams dug fresh from the beach and cooked in pits my cousins and I created. Those seafood bakes were always an event. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift across sun-sparkled water and the sound of waves, the crackle of driftwood as the fire consumed it, the flavor of marshmallows toasted on willow branches cut from the water’s edge.
Across from me, Simon hummed slightly, a sound of approval. “You like it?” he asked.
I chewed and swallowed, trying not to rush, but not wanting to make Simon wait. “I do. What is the filling? I can’t quite place it, but it’s delicious.”
That cheeky smile came back to Simon’s face. He turned away and then placed a small glass bowl in front of me. The bowl contained a small, white orb, irregular in shape and slightly iridescent in color. He touched it with his finger, then lifted his eyes to meet mine.
“Is that a pearl?” I asked.
“It is.”
I took another bite of ravioli, still trying to place the main ingredient of the filling. “Did you use the oysters for this?”
“I did.”
Another bite, and I nodded my head. “I might have to reassess my opinion about oysters. This is delicious.” Putting down my fork, I picked up the bowl and studied the pearl it held. It was by no means gem quality, but quite beautiful all the same. Not to mention improbable.
“I found this when I was shucking the oysters earlier and thought it would be a nice surprise for you and Richard. But then…”
He trailed off, and I assumed he didn’t know quite how to term the earlier fiasco. Neither did I for that matter. It was rapidly being eclipsed by this delightful and surprising evening.
“Yes. But then.”
