If it be not now, yet it will come

Amanda was the first to arrive, and as I met her in the doorway we both – from afar, in that manner of two people excited to see one another – unloaded in our attempts to get the first word in. She won handily, of course; with words that were not so much accusatory but rather tinged with relief at the absolution of guilt. “You didn’t answer your phone, and your doorbell’s not working. But I’m on time!”

I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.

Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.

The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.

My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.

The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.

Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.

As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.

Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese

1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce

Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.

I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.