Craft

I once fell in love with a man because of his cardigan. Thick grey wool, cable knit, rich wooden buttons - it was clearly made as a meditation; some craftsperson’s creative offering to the void. I could tell he loved it because he wore it everyday.

He was a surly grump. A rich dichotomy of being, as a master chocolatier. I would watch him pour chocolate onto marble and shift it around, patiently watching - waiting to order my hot chocolate. Fifteen years later, I know that was the best hot chocolate I will ever lift to my lips and savour. The light grey of his sweater was flecked with bits of cocoa, and I would trace a line with my eyes to connect them all, like a child does with dots on a page.

Now you may say I fall in love quite easily, and it’s true. But it’s rarely a romantic love (though that has struck me hard and unexpectedly on occasion). This love was one of bearing witness to someone who has spent their life’s work mastering their craft and was about to let it all go. The grief, the pride, the uncertainty- I saw it unfold in waves as he moved through time and space, cataloging what needed to be done to close up shop.

At the time, I wanted him to love me. Not as a woman, but as someone worthy of being taught. I would have spent hours at his side if he would’ve had me, learning how to temper and shape the most delicious substance on the planet. It sounds silly, but when we have never belonged, it is easy to want to belong to someone brilliant.

I finally feel like I belong - to my life, to myself, my people. Wanting to belong isn’t a weakness, it’s a gift. When you truly know what loneliness means, giving pieces of yourself away is easy. And it’s worth it. That said, I’m old enough now that I am the one drawing younger ones close. They each belong to me in their own way and it’s a wonderful feeling.

As I lean into this new time of softness and gentleness, learning to do less, I feel an even stronger kinship with the chocolatier. Standing on the precipice of a new way of being and doing, I’m not frightened because I watched him do the same. When he retired I grieved, but I also hoped he found something to make him smile.

Tonight I ate one of the best meals of my life. The most perfect bowl of pasta you could possibly imagine. I remember learning how to make Kraft dinner, then my own spaghetti sauce, graduating to make my own pasta. (Then I found out I can’t eat gluten, which is a travesty of the first order). From the first box of KD to the masterpiece consumed tonight, a whole world of learning, experimenting, sacrificing, and worshipping.

Many remark that the master chef is a savant and I would agree. I photographed him as he studied an old Italian cookbook. He’s local royalty; I suspect he’s even been blessed by the gods. We finished off the night with his chocolate torta, which is what sparked the memory of the old chocolatier.

This is what it means to live a good life: you fall in love with pasta, chocolate, masters, apprentices, the sky and the soil. What’s left when it’s all over hasn’t yet been revealed. In the meantime, I will continue to eat the good food, drink the good wine, and always keep my eye out for a man in a grey cardigan, speckled with chocolate.