Let me tell you about the man I fell in love with.
Rapture feels like becoming reacquainted with the ocean. As your bare feet approach the shoreline the current pulls back leaving a tickling sensation in the softness of your arches. For a moment gravity becomes a question. The porous soil retreating beneath renders you to the first time meeting the ocean. You see, rapture is a lot like that. I know the word “overwhelming” is tossed around as commonplace, but true rapture is indeed overwhelming. Therapists often share the concept of feeling two separate feelings simultaneously. As the ocean current retreats, my gaze is fixed on the expanse whilst the ground buckles. In that moment I’m feeling many things simultaneously. Vulnerable, tranquil and belonging all entwined in conversation, never at odds. When I tell you about the man I fell in love with, it was pure rapture.
When I share this story I sometimes cannot believe it. I met a friend for dinner near my home in Brooklyn. It’s one of those “neighborhood spots.” What the restaurant provides is security in it’s consistency. Along the dining room wall is a panoramic mirror, an adornment serving two purposes, the illusion of space and a viewpoint of efficiency. The host placed down menus and pulled the table back allowing my friend to settle in the banquette. My face appears in the mirror, bearing witness to the action taking place behind me. Sparkling water runs freely. A familiar server approaches and graciously lists specials, however the company I keep remains ready with an order. Within no time the food arrives. A lush bowl of greens offers health and the pasta is so warm that every bite has the essence of sage. I can hear my friend speaking but my mind is debating whether or not I could make a variation of this pasta at home. Soon, dessert is ordered and the tarts pate brisée leaves a faint lacquer of butter on my lips. My friend and I split the bill, gather our belongings and dutifully thank the kind waiter. Exiting the restaurant, I look in the mirror and notice a man that sends chills down my spine. He looks at me, almost through me. The warmth and assuredness of his presence was an energy I’ve never experienced before. His laughter feels playful and his smile could turn even the darkest cynic. Our eyes hold and for a moment and I feel ill. Curiosity begins to build. I know him from childhood somehow. This is the kind of man I want to see more often. I have a divine belief in the cosmos knowing that in this small city seeing him will happen.
A few days went by and the prospect of seeing this man again was feeling farther from reality. Before bed one night I prayed, “please, if I feel this way, let there be one more opportunity.” A week lapsed and I felt foolish, but not disappointed. A new persona was emerging from within. Coincidentally, I made some positive changes in my life gifted with a kind inner voice. Hard conversations didn’t come to blows, painful memories were no longer scabs and self inflicted expectations vanished. If you witnessed me on the street my gait even had a lightness to it. I am not religious but I am spiritual. This was confirmed one day when I was at a coffee shop in the East Village and the man from the restaurant was there too.
The coffee shop only plays records, the idea of an aux cord is laughable to the robust owner. I order a piccolo latte and take refuge in the alcove. I somehow always finish the pastry before I receive the coffee. In the notes app I was procuring a shopping list of ingredients for my next project. My eyes move up and see the man from my prayers at the register. Theres a mirror with the handwritten menu on it that captures his silhouette. Where do prayers go? What power decides which prayers are answered? Thankfully, the reply was faster than anticipated. The coffee shop is seemingly full and I hear him order to stay. I put myself into action as he’s looking to find a seat for himself and his uneven wedge of frittata. I make it obvious that theres plenty of space for him next to me. Luckily, the energy from the restaurant now feels kinetic. We exchange hello’s and I ask him if he was at the same restaurant in Brooklyn a while back. He confirmed and said he noticed me too. His presence neither feels masculine or feminine. I catch myself smiling so much my laugh lines are beginning to feel permanent. We casually converse and after a couple of minutes he puts his hand on my leg to excuse himself to use the bathroom. Goosebumps wave over me like a stadium crowd in the early aughts. I see a text on my phone and I cannot believe it, not the text, but I’ve been at the coffee shop for over an hour. He comes back from the bathroom and notices the time and has somewhere to be. We exchange phone numbers and agree to meet each other within a week. I fumbled over parting words and landed on, “I feel lucky to see you again, I prayed for this.” His eyes address me in an affirming way and he says, “I prayed for you too.”
We decided to meet at The MET. No candles, no meal, no endless lists of red flags, just us and some ancient artifacts and the latest Costume Institute exhibit. Now that we’re both standing, I find his frame remarkable. My eyes follow the sharpness of his jawline down to his collarbone. His shoulders sit down and back with confidence. Where does he store his tension? I wish I could be a cinematographer capturing a closeup of how his lips just flawlessly act out the words he’s speaking. To me, he’s the art compared to the collection of Greco-Roman busts. Laughter is abundant and frequent. He’s quickly becoming a playful friend that I want to be around all the time. We pass an Alexander McQueen masterpiece and he says, “Do those dangling pieces of moss kind of look like anal beads?” We approach the Temple of Dendur and the room still takes my breath away. Shallow water surrounding the temple dampens the sound controlling attention to the slabs of rock dedicated to the goddess Isis. The moment passes for jokes, tonally we’re on a different page. We find a moment to sit and we’re so close that we’re actually holding hands. His palm has a slight callus confirming his d.i.y. nature. Typically I would break into a flop sweat, rather I feel my heartbeat steady. He brings out earbuds and says he wants to play me a song he’s been listening to on repeat. Dean Blunt - “100.”
“Over my shoulder,
I’m dying to meet you,
But everybody says I’m wrong.”
The abstract house meets deadpan hip-hop that is Dean Blunt is hypnotic. The music sharing has a gravitational pull. We approach the end slowly descending the steps of The MET. We concede this was an ideal moment and we have to do something again. I hold him close and know this act of physicality is enough. Our gaze and touch is validation beyond prescribed acts of endearment. In the world we’ve newly created, we don’t say goodbye. “I’ll see you,” we repeat. Somehow the sentiment evokes no expectations but is curious and seductive. During the walk from the train my mind is on a loop replaying the moment where we said, “I’ll see you.”
The avid cook that I am has me yearning to make a meal for him. One of the most sacred acts is nourishing another. I’m in my bliss shopping for a menu I’ve handwritten. Slow cooked English peas on toast with mint, lemon zest and sheep’s milk ricotta. Half of a chicken roasted with satiny spinach and small green salad of watercress. Salsa Etruscan made with pine nuts, sage, rosemary and stale bread soaked in Chianti vinegar creating a feral juxtaposition. This menu is more for me and if I’m impressed surely he will be too. We decide six o’clock is a good time to meet and I am putting finishing touches on a small Bakewell Tart dusting it with confectioners sugar. Six o’clock comes and I look out the window for any signs of him trying to find my apartment. Despite the neighborhoods best efforts, the numbering on the buildings often confuses newcomers. Six o’clock became six thirty in the slowest way. The chicken’s been resting now for 45 minutes. Still no signs of this regal man. It’s now seven o’clock and it never dawned on me to check my phone. To my surprise his number is no longer there.
Theres no panic, no tears. I eat the chicken even after an hour of resting, the food is now room temp but still delicious. Cleaning up nothing feels misfortunate. When I get in touch with him I don’t want an explanation of what happened, I just want to know he’s okay. The three times I’ve been around him have felt so special if thats it, it was worth it. In those moments I was present and conscious of every detail. A quote I heard years ago from Brené Brown pops into my head:
“If you truly love someone, you’ll love them so much you’ll let them go.”
Control is what I’m unshackling myself from. Theres nothing tethering me to the past or an unpredictable future. With a couple of focused breaths I bring myself back to center. Adjusting the pillows on my couch I sit poised surveying my apartment. I try to type something in the search bar for YouTube but my fingers won’t move. The tears have arrived. As a scorpio, the water sign I am, I’m no stranger to floods. Twenty years later I’m still grieving my late mother in one inhale; the exhale atrophies every fiber in me slouching towards progress. I’ve always loved the buddhist teachings around these complicated emotions:
“In order to experience happiness you have to make peace with darkness.”
Buddhists and therapists get it right when they dissect the complexities of human experience. My elevated heart rate returns to a serene beat as it knows bedtime approaches. My body surrenders to the softness of the mattress and I catch my gaze in the bedside mirror. Theres a familiarity deep in my pupils. My hands caress my jawline down to my collarbone. I see the confidence I keep in my shoulders. I whisper goodnight to myself. I halt and see how my lips move in this cinematic way. The cosmos jolts me from the bed and now I’m sitting in full view of the mirror with my body collected in the frame. It makes perfect sense why I wasn’t phased when he didn’t come to dinner. I feel I’m in a state of psychosis for how childlike and silly I’ve allowed myself to be. The mirror in the restaurant, the reflection in the coffee shop, the shallow water casting back at The MET. The marvelous man I’ve fallen in love with is just myself, gazing in the mirror, pure rapture.
Puttanesca Verde
I wanted to render a staple of mine through a slightly different lens. The way Italians cook wintery greens might be the only way in which I can appreciate them. First taming the bitterness with the softening of a rolling salty boil. Wringing out every last ounce of moisture, practically transforming to mush. However, the warmth of olive oil and further concentration of flavor unveils a verdant sweetness. The greens are commingling with the foundation of puttanesca creating something exciting. The bow on this package is the necessity of ricotta salata. The sheeps milk cheese with purposeful chalky texture is well intended extra credit.
Makes 1 quart
Ingredients:
2 bunches broccoli rabe, turnip greens, or dandelion greens, ends trimmed
2 cloves garlic, core removed, thinly sliced
40g olives (taggiasca, niçoise, picholine, castelvetrano all work,) roughly chopped
1 1/2tsp capers, finely chopped
2 anchovy fillets, finely chopped
150ml extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt to taste
Method:
In a large pot filled with water, bring to a boil and add kosher salt. The water should be slightly saltier than how you would season pasta water. Add the greens submerging them with a spoon into the salty water. Boil for 5-8 minutes until the stems are tender and can easily yield to touch. Remove from and set aside on a tray or large bowl to cool for at least 15 minutes. Carefully wring out as much water from the vegetable as possible forming small tight packages of greens. Roughly chop the greens and set aside.
In a large skillet add garlic, olives, capers, anchovy and extra virgin olive oil. Heat over low and intentionally keep an eye to ensure theres no color forming on the garlic, like a hot tub when the jets are turned off. When the whole mixture is noticeably fragrant and theres some action, add the greens to the pan and raise the heat to medium. Cook and stir occasionally for 5-10 minutes. This all depends on how much water was released from the greens. This process is about evaporating even more moisture concentrating everything existing in the pan. The greens should turn color slightly from vibrant green to earth tone green.
The green puttanesca might need more olive oil, check for seasoning, add salt as needed and bare in mind that most of the ingredients used for this are salty in nature. Serve this on crispy toast, its good with pasta, its fantastic with polenta too. These greens would make a wonderful addition as a side with roast chicken or lamb. Take the warm puttanesca verde and finish it with ricotta salata for a transcendent experience.