Eating together started two days after we met. Only a coffee house (of sorts), or — as said when asked about Woody Allen, “the food is terrible, but the portions are big.” Even though Raquel was a good enough cook to host a cooking segment on public radio for over ten years, and have three cooking books published, we eat out as our primary time for conversations — nothing to do with quality – but with privacy – no interruptions.
Even in our last years together, the best part of our week was “eating out.” (Perhaps getting “dressed up” had something to do with it for her. We usually picked “eateries” that enjoyed dressed up women, and thought nothing of men in work clothes.)
At home, we ate in the kitchen, with a double-level counter. Ricki loved cooking, it was her joy and opportunity for creativity. During that process, cooking was on the upper side of the counter but obviously verbally assessable with the other – me. Then, dinner. That (those) activities might take an hour or two. Some good. And now — an empty chair and silence.
Now, alone, my cooking is not good, but it is fast. Frozen dinners, anywhere from four minutes to eight. Consumption? I’ve become an animal. The second spoon full enters my mouth before the first is finished. The total event take less than a half hour (including clean up). During cleaning the kitchen, I try to remember what I just ate, but I can’t. Now, washing the dishes (actually – dish) is the part of the procedure I like or remember (probably ’cause I do it three times a day). Oh my…..then I think of Ricki. Then—–oh, never mind.