Wearing My Wine in My Smile
I would like to capture the color of the moment. The sartorial tweed, a herringbone overlay, and dash of red, or purple, or daffodil, peaking from under a short Italian pant. At dinner, we are layered like tiramisu — the airy all over cake, a thin potent layer of chocolate mousse, the hints of espresso flitting throughout, and the vast folds of whipped cream.
The menu: a whole chicken cooked breast down, daubed with butter, oiled, and left to steam in some white wine I throw across when I notice I’m not getting enough juice for basting. No salt. I heard somewhere it dries it out, which makes sense, but this is the first time I’ve held off until the cooking is done. I don’t know how to cook without a heavy dosing of salt, so I’m a bit worried. I’ve also heard that salt and lemon serve to break down certain molecules that increase the intensity of the flavor — that’s why good cooks add in a dash at the end. I’ve let the chicken rest out of the oven for a quarter of an hour. Sandy says it’s so tender, it falls off the bone. No salt is the way to go.
It is warm and Emmet fixes the candle that I declare must clearly be for decoration only. After all, I can’t light the wick. When I try, the flame just disappears. He carefully carves the wax away with a knife so the outside wicks will light. I am wearing three glasses of wine in my smile, and my ski vest. On the inside flap is a boy’s name and address written in large permanent letters. The vest was found at a thrift store and has been in my possession for four years. I’ve thought often of looking up this address, but never followed through. I wore this vest like a heavy drug addiction during the 10th Street days. Now I only pull it out for a bit of spice. It’s vintage, you know.
Since I acquired the 9 to 6, I lost the ability to kill forty five minutes in a thrift store. While I’ve markedly cut down on the amount of outright waste in my life — no longer do I get home from the store with four items, two of which it turns out are unwearable — I certainly have not upped the cool factor. I am sort of Berkeley casual, dressed in my REI black jacket every day, under which I wear something indistinguishable with my jeans. Once in awhile I put on the boots. But I can’t bike in the boots or the dress, so the only time I wear these is when it rains and I drive. My fashion has become a casualty of the weather and my mode of transportation.
I’ve got a home again, with my mom-made oak bookshelves across from my bed, and a shelf of linguistics books below a shelf of drug trip novels. I am close to being back in myself and my home. I know this because I’ve just finished cooking dinner tonight, and Emmet talked about the bees.