An Un-Bruschetta-ble Summer

It's not everyday a beautiful Italian man ends up in your kitchen. Yet there he was dark haired and hazel eyed standing over the stove making me breakfast. The heat of the morning just barely creeping through the rust rimmed windowpane.

“The more garlic the better.” He stated, his boyish smile as warm as the fledgling day. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and seated myself on the only furniture in the tiny kitchen, a wobbly but well loved wooden stool. This was the beginning, where we set the table for our new friendship that was just peaking above the horizon, shining in the curve of my smile.

Basil

Tomatoes

Olive Oil

Fresh Bread

Arugula

And of course

Garlic.

Over the next few months as my shopping list grew so did my confidence. Our relationship formed around the little meals we made each other. They were kisses our lips could share without having to touch. The kitchen became my sanctuary. A space to create, and give. It was a relief to know I could still give after all the past year had taken from me.

I had only known winter before this. I used to think it was a cold barren space in myself- a constant state of being rather than a season. I used to love a man who was already frozen over. Who convinced me the pantry would never be full, that the summer of love ended in 69’ and shots of whiskey were the only way to get a little taste of that sunshine. Cooking had been pointless then. There was no appreciation for the clarity of fresh vegetables, or a jalapenos kicking dance that left footprints on the tongue only milk could wash away. Everything was heavy, salty, bland. There was no money for any quality ingredients, no time for experimenting. Not even the grilled cheese I made was to his liking, and I shook like a leaf when he threw it across the room. Luckily I was wrong about the endless winter and I escaped one night with nothing but the clothes on my back and a promise to myself that I wouldn’t let my heart go cold and hungry any longer.

On starting a new life I realized the world had not stood still as I had. It was hot, fast paced and draining. I had a lot of work to be done making a new place for myself, fixing friendships, working enough to make ends meet. Despite my best efforts I kept a certain feeling of self pity about me, letting it excuse me from doing things I really wanted to do or from being brave enough to talk to people I didn’t know. But when I saw him fumbling with his wallet, and the exasperation that set over his light hazel eyes when he realized he didn’t have any cash to pay for his food, that was when I felt the thaw begin in my heart. I offered to buy his meal and we sat together on the quiet patio under the cottonwood trees, sipping grapefruit soda. The bite of lime against my barbacoa tacos was as refreshing as our conversation. We talked about simple things, our families, how college had been and funnily enough dungeons and dragons. We spent the rest of the day and night together just talking, laughing. He wasn't ostentatious or overly charming, it was his unembellished kindness that shone through, made me feel safe. I thought it was a dream when I woke up the next morning, until I came into the kitchen and found him- cooking- our first love language.

Sitting in the red evening sun on the stone steps of his casita later that July was the first time he told me he loved me. Though it wasn’t with the conventional three little words somehow-“This is delicious.”- in relation to the bruschetta I made for us managed to get the same point across. I savored his praise like limoncello golden and burning, chasing through the blood in my veins, leaving me floating. Bruschetta is more complicated to spell than to make, all you really need is a drizzle of olive oil, bright chopped tomatoes, fresh basil and of course garlic all layered atop a toasted slice of bread. Simple, playful, and light, forever the perfect ode to the summer he kindled in my soul. We ate and watched the sun set, the open sky collecting freckles of stars. Nothing could taste better than this.