I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti (29 page)

Return to desk to check on the installation. Discover that installation of free software is not happening; you will have to
upgrade to LimeWire Pro. Retrieve Visa card and type account number in appropriate box; learn what “security code” is.

Run back to kitchen, where pancetta and onions should be a little more browned than you needed them to be. Tell yourself that
caramelization is a good thing; add half the tomatoes and their juices, let them thicken a bit, and return to desk.

Adding the credit card numbers worked! You are ready to download songs.

Scotsman is finished with shower, drying himself, and calling out his requests. He will have his heart set on “Custard Pie.”
Search for “Custard Pie” and click to download song, then run back to the kitchen.

Add the rest of the tomatoes to the skillet. Add salt to the boiling water, then the bucatini; give the pot a stir and go
back to the computer.

You will find a notice telling you the song cannot be downloaded, as it “needs more sources.” Deliver news to Scotsman, now
emerging from bathroom. See how he feels about “In My Time of Dying,” find that it won’t do, attempt “Custard Pie” again,
fail. Go on to other songs from Physical Grafitti—find “The Rover,” “Kashmir,” “Ten Years Gone,” “Bron-Yr-Aur,” and download
all without a hitch.

By now, you have forgotten the boiling pasta. Run to the kitchen to taste it; it will be overcooked. You will be ashamed for
having failed at everything. Drain immediately, add to sauce. Remove from heat, sprinkle with pecorino.

Serves 2, unsatisfyingly.

I was shaken by the fact that the first thing I ever cooked for Lachlan was a sorry example of my abilities. Overcooked pasta
is the cardinal sin of Italian cookery—
sfatta,
my mother calls it in what may be her own Sicilian dialect—my knowledge of Italian translates the word to something like
“mismade.” I pouted over the meal, knowing I could do so much better. Lachlan faulted himself for getting in the shower right
at the crucial moment. This would be the only time he took responsibility for a limp noodle.

“Do you want me to make coffee?” I asked Lachlan when we awoke the next morning.

“Only if you want me to be eternally grateful,” was his reply.

Imagine that sentence, spoken in a mild Scottish accent, and maybe you can understand why I loved him as much as I did.

The meals got better. Once free from that time-suck known as the office, I could devote my days to planning them. I shopped
in the morning while Lachlan “inserted a few cherries” into his novel before giving it to me to read. I was in heaven, exploring
my new neighborhood in the quiet daytime hours, checking out the food markets, determining where the good cheese was to be
found, who had the best meat and who the better bread. I returned with all manner of delicious things for us to eat when Lachlan
was ready to break for lunch. I knew he would enjoy my discoveries just as much as I.

I returned to find him writing and laughing away to himself.

“Helloooo,” he shouted when I walked in the door.

I went to the kitchen to assemble an array of lovely things for us to have for lunch. I couldn’t stop smiling as I made him
a tuna salad that was a lunchtime staple back in the Shelter Island days.

Summerhouse Tuna Salad

(Adapted from Ginia Bellafante)

1 6-ounce can tuna, packed in olive oil

1 tablespoon chopped red onion

1 summer tomato, seeded and chopped

1 teaspoon capers

1½ teaspoons olive oil

¼ teaspoon salt

Few grindings pepper

1 tablespoon chopped parsley (and/or basil if you have it)

Open tuna and drain the excess oil, put it in a bowl, and add the chopped onion, tomato, capers, olive oil, salt, and pepper.
Mix it all up and garnish with the chopped parsley.

Serve with fresh bread.

Serves 2; easily doubled.

I served it with bread that was still warm when I bought it, slices of soppressata—laid out in neat strips on a whimsical
plate decorated with a childish drawing of a squirrel— olives, and fresh mozzarella. I presented our feast on a tray I had
bought the previous day at the Brooklyn Museum—all the better to serve him with.

My apartment was so sunny, we may as well have been outside. Lachlan drank water, and I had a glass of red wine, slightly
chilled for our indoor picnic.

“Buon appetito,”
Lachlan said before digging in.

“Buon appetito,”
I said back to him, beaming.

We said that to each other before every meal, even when we were no longer beaming.

While we ate, Lachlan continued with the big questions:

“Do you have any regrets?”

“Do you have everything you want?”

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

“Do you ever want to get married?”

“Do you think about having children?”

I didn’t know what to tell him. Did I have everything I wanted? Everything except a husband. Where did I see myself ten years
from now? I saw myself married—same place I saw myself ten years ago—clearly my vision is blurry. Did I think about having
children? Not often, but I would entertain the idea for Lachlan. How much to divulge became a philosophical question for me.
What knowledge of my past relationships was Lachlan entitled to? I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t implicate
me as unlovable.

I wasn’t eager to bring past disappointments into a new relationship that seemed full of possibility. We were getting on well
together, we agreed on everything from music to pasta shapes to ice-cream flavors. Everything, that is, except for air- conditioning—Lachlan
reviled it, dubbing the machine “the noisy fridge.” He composed a little protest song set to the tune of Kansas’s “Point of
Know Return.” In the middle of the night, he woke me up singing: “Your motherrrrr, she says it’s freeeeezing.” I nearly wet
the bed I was laughing so hard, but I didn’t give in. There is only so far that I will bend to the European sensibility.

Although I embrace the comforts of the New World, I’m old-fashioned when it comes to cooking. I wouldn’t let Lachlan do any,
even though he was more than capable. Instead I relegated him to menial tasks, like chopping an onion or garlic, which he
happened to do beautifully; I can’t claim knife skills so refined. He didn’t put up a fight, he was mellowed by the pot he’d
smoke while keeping me company in the kitchen—always closing the shutters so the neighbors wouldn’t see. We’d listen to music;
I’d even let him play his. That electronica stuff was growing on me, especially Zero 7, whose song “Destiny” I considered
our song, though I wouldn’t admit anything so precious to Lachlan.

Not that he refrained from habitually marveling over what a thing it was that we met. “You can’t call it fate, but chance,”
he would say, taking me in his arms. I’d point out two tiny prep bowls I’d picked up for ten cents each at Fishs Eddy on my
way home from the dentist, items I considered to be major players in that event. “If I hadn’t stopped to buy these bowls,
it would never have happened,” I’d say, floored by the idea that my future had been determined by two ten-cent prep bowls.
Ah, those little bowls. I get a bit sad when I look at them now, but I haven’t gotten rid of them; they are essential to my
mise en place
.

Earlier that summer, during the five minutes I wallowed in disappointment over the utter uselessness of my latest fling, I
went to visit my friend Jennifer Romanello on Long Island. Jennifer shares a beach cabana with her extended family, all fabulous
cooks staunchly dedicated to eating and drinking well. From a tiny hot plate, they create incredibly sophisticated dishes,
risotto and porcini, linguine with crabmeat. One I took particular note of was a stew of colorful sautéed peppers made by
Jennifer’s sister Carmela. I marveled at her skillful hand on the paring knife as she cut up peppers along with red onion
and tomato and let them slip into the pot. I re-created this dish for Lachlan with gorgeous peppers from the farmer’s market.

Carmela Romanello’s Sautéed Summer Peppers

2 tablespoons olive oil

I clove garlic, minced

1 red onion, ends removed, sliced lengthwise into semicircular chunks

Pinch dried oregano

3 bell peppers (1 red, 1 orange, 1 yellow), cored, seeds and pith removed, cut into strips

1¼ teaspoons salt

1 large tomato (or 2 plum tomatoes), seeded and cut into chunks

¼ cup torn basil leaves

Freshly ground pepper

Heat olive oil in large sauté pan or Dutch oven over medium heat and sauté garlic and onion with the oregano until the onion
is soft and translucent, about 3 to 5 minutes. Add peppers and 1 teaspoon salt and cook partially covered, stirring occasionally,
for 15 to 20 minutes. Add tomatoes and ¼ teaspoon salt; continue to cook another 10 to 15 minutes until the peppers are
very soft. Test for seasoning and serve with torn basil leaves and freshly ground pepper.

Serve with Italian sausages, barbecued if you’re lucky enough to have outdoor space. I am not, so I grill them on the stove.

Yield: 6 servings.

I took Lachlan to Bay Ridge, where I showed him the house I grew up in and my favorite butcher shop, Faicco. I bought us heaps
of food—steaks, sausages, bacon, cheese. I love the sight of the gorgeous meat laid out neatly behind the refrigerated glass.
I like giving the guy behind the counter my big order, like a signora from days gone by. The dishes I made for Lachlan were
simple, but the way he reacted to them, you would have thought I was Luciano Pavarotti’s personal chef. A particular revelation
for Lachlan was orzo, a pasta shaped like rice he had never before tried. It makes a great summer side dish, as it’s delicious
warm or cool. I made this one with steaks grilled on the stove and seasoned with a little olive oil and salt and pepper.

Orzo with Cherry Tomatoes and Basil

½ cup orzo

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 cup cherry tomatoes (a mix of red and yellow if the latter are available), halved

¼ cup thinly sliced fresh basil

2 tablespoons pine nuts, toasted

1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

Cook the orzo according to the directions for pasta
here
. Note: Orzo cooks quicker than regular pastas, so check it
earlier than you normally would; 6 minutes seems reasonable to me. Drain the pasta and add the oil. Once it is cooled, stir
in the tomatoes, basil, pine nuts, vinegar, and salt and pepper to taste.

Yield: 2 servings.

Lachlan continued with his questions over the sausage and peppers and the steak and orzo. He asked them on walks through the
rain to the museum and on sunny days lying in Prospect Park. I continued my campaign to evade.