& Bring a Merlot

Boxing Day used to be my favorite day of the year.

When your family came over on Christmas Day, I was under the pump. Your mother loathed me because I’m blonde, blue eyed, English, not Greek. ‘The English can’t cook – everyone knows that’, she’d rudely informed me. I rose to her challenge. Hey! What challenge? There was no challenge. Her idea of well-cooked lamb was charcoaled. Her biscuits were dry, and she always incorporated coconut and almond, both of which I am allergic to. In her lounge, the woman had placed a vase in front of my photograph; only your face peeped around the edge while I remained obscured. She hated me – but you loved me.

In the weeks before Christmas, I read every Christmas dinner menu written by Jamie Oliver and Curtis Stone. I dumbed down their wilder ideas to a level that I could manage. I pre-prepared everything, set the table a whole day before, and then: on Christmas morning I became a cooking demon. We feasted, except for your mother who pushed away her plate and filled up on baclava. I shrugged, cleared the table and began washing dishes, vaguely aware of sharp voices in the back garden.

On Boxing Day I liked to settle back with a smile, a good book and a glass of wine. ‘What’s for lunch?’ you’d ask me. ‘See that big white box thing in the corner of the kitchen?’ I'd smirk. ‘That’s the fridge. Help yourself to whatever you want. I ain’t moving.’

But this year on Boxing Day, you left me. My favorite day of the year was ruined. ‘I can’t handle this anymore. You and my mother…’ you’d muttered. There was a lot more, but it boiled down to: She won. I lost. You left.

I never told anyone; I cried for three days, not daring to speak it out loud. I pretended you’d gone away on business. You had been my best friend.

When I eventually confessed, my girlfriends sympathized. They assured me that someone better would come along because they hadn’t really liked you and that was comforting and irritating at the same time. But they didn’t understand. I’d been ripped.

That was over a year ago.

I went to a Farmers Market on Sunday; I’d kept away all that time, protecting myself. Punishing myself? Foodies jostled around the stalls. Familiar smells tantalized the air. All those beautiful meats and vegetables, pies and breads, potted everythings, dried herbs, jellies, honey and remedies for ills, they all presented their abundance before me. I loved it! My imagination plotted meals and desserts, saw the roasted cuts with the fresh baby potatoes and carrots, followed by pastries with assorted fruits and custard. It was exhilarating!

I cried. Tears rolled down my face and I ducked behind a stall to gasp the air and grab onto any thought that would keep me from spiraling into a vortex of self-pity. I don’t know how long I sat, clawing at normality, dragging it back to keep me safe.

‘Are you okay? Can I get you a glass of water?’ His voice was concerned in the tone of a man who doesn’t want to have a woman die out the back of his stall: it’s bad for business and the police ask an awful lot of questions.

I will never know why I told him the truth. ‘All this lovely food. I want to cook it all. But there’s no one to cook for.’ Perhaps I was sick of lying. Perhaps because he was a stranger to me, I knew he wouldn’t give me a torrent of advice that I’d have to endure and pretend to be grateful for.

He nodded and left without a word. I hadn’t expected that. But a few minutes later he returned holding a burger and a ginger beer. ‘Joe does the best burgers here. He uses my mince. That’s a home brew ginger beer – not too fizzy. You get that down you.’ He dumped a plate beside me and left. I hadn’t expected that. I ate. And drank. And I recovered my composure.

Now I’m embarrassed! At my age, for crying out loud. I’ve cried and confessed to a stranger, who subsequently bought me lunch, and now I’ve got to return the plate and pay him because I can’t have this happening. It’s all too much. I actually had my purse in my hand when his voice broke in: ‘How are you now?’.

I looked up and for the first time I saw him. He looked solid. Not fat, I mean planted, solid, like a tree. Patiently, he waited for me to answer. ‘Much better.’ I smiled, I couldn’t help it and it wasn’t that fake smile of ‘look, I can do this, I can cope.’ I was really smiling. I wondered if he’ll think I’m crazy. I smiled some more.

‘I used to love cooking,’ I told him. ‘But now there’s just me. So… there’s no point. And I miss it.’ By now, my smile had gone and a lump was threatening my throat.

He looked at me for what seemed to be long, long moments. Then he nodded. ‘I don’t…er.’ He hesitated, looked around at his stall. A banner, Pete’s Meats flapped optimistically. ‘Hi. I’m Pete.’ He indicated his stall with a dismissive glance. ‘Can I ask you something really stupid – and please say no if you…’ He kicked his heel and looked into the distance. He shrugged and I could see the moment was about to be lost.

My turn to help him. ‘Ask me.’

‘I, um, I have a really tender shoulder of lamb that deserves a good cook. Someone who would appreciate it. What do you think?’

I didn’t know what to think. As a sales pitch, this was unique. ‘What do you suggest? You want me to buy a joint of lamb from you?’

He spoke very slowly. ‘Can I give it to you and invite myself to dinner? Only it seems that you don’t have anyone to cook for and I don’t have anyone to cook for me. I love home cooked meals and I’m a great washer-upper. Am I… Is this…?’ He stopped. ‘It’s okay,’ he finished, sadly.

‘Yes.’ Something inside of me bloomed. It was optimism. I didn’t need this to last forever. I didn’t even know if it would be a good idea or not. ‘But you must bring a Merlot. A good meal needs a good wine and that would be … just right.’ We smiled at each other. I’m sure we were both wondering what the hell we’d just done, but at least we were going to do it with a nice bottle of wine.