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"I love shrimp."
"Name three shrimp dishes you like."
"Shrimp scampi, shrimp arrabiata, shrimp fried rice."
"They're all based around pasta or rice. Wh
at else do they have in common?"
"Garlic." I rack my brain for other similarities. Shrimp scampi doesn't seem like it has anything in common with shrimp fried rice, but both dishes are cooked with a lot of butter or oil. Both have lemon. Both are a mix of shrimp, veggies, and starch.
I relay all my findings to Joel.
He nods. "Let's put a pasta dish together. What do you want to put in it, besides shrimp?"
"How do you put a dish together?"
"I do whatever feels right. I don't really think about shit in that kind of analytical way." He moves behind me and slides his arms around my waist. "We've got a lot of options here. What else do you want in your dish?"
I grab the box of pasta. "Obviously."
He laughs. "Obviously."
"Red peppers." They're a key ingredient in arrabiata and in shrimp fried rice. And they're amazing. "Garlic, of course. Basil. Frozen broccoli. And—" My brow scrunches. "Hmm, one more vegetable. What do you think?"
"It's your creation, angel."
I recall my last delicious pasta dish. We were at one of Dad's favorite restaurants in Little Italy. The conversation was awkward, stilted. Anne was talking about all the shopping she had to do before some party she was throwing for her husband's work. Dad was shooting her this why has my daughter been reduced to spending her time shopping look of disappointment. All I could think about was my impending finals.
The overall experience was awful. But the food was great.
"Artichoke hearts," I say.
He finds a can of them in the pantry. "You want me to lead?"
"Yes, please."
Joel smiles as he takes control. He puts a pan on the burner then walks me through sautéing the shrimp and frozen broccoli. He demonstrates the best way to slice a bell pepper.
He never gets condescending. I don't know how to explain it. When my dad instructs me, I always end up feeling like a child. But with Joel it's like we're equals. Like he sees my potential.
We're only cutting vegetables and boiling pasta, but I really feel like we're a team.
And I really like it.
After we put the dish on simmer—apparently, we need to give the flavors time to bleed together—I slide onto the counter.
Joel leans against the opposite counter. His eyes fix on mine. "You still want something from our wedding night?"
It's weird to think of it as our wedding night, but that's an accurate label. I nod. "Please."
"You remember when we went to the Bellagio fountains?"
"A little."
He smiles, but there's a sadness to it. Then he's shaking that off, and he's all smile. "We got there right as the water show was starting. The song was My Heart Will Go On."
"The Titanic song?"
