Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [136]
“Well, it isn’t real writing. I mean, recipes are different. It’s more like just writing things down, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, but still, cranking out a weekly column isn’t easy.” Michael gives me an admiring look, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m really only developing and testing recipes and that, according to Enid Maxwell, I couldn’t write myself out of a paper bag.
“Are you going to keep doing it after you come back here?” Renata asks.
I hadn’t even thought about having to give up my column. Or where we’d live, or getting Chloe back into day care, which could take several months. I hadn’t thought about a lot of things. All, it seems, I had thought about was Grappa—and Jake—and not necessarily in that order. Suddenly the room feels too warm. I pick up my water glass and drain it in a couple of long, thirsty gulps; it’s instantly refilled by a hovering waiter.
“You know, there’s no reason you couldn’t try to get your column syndicated,” Michael says later, over dessert and coffee. “In fact, I think it’s a good idea. Didn’t you say this editor wants you to wake up those tired Pittsburgh taste buds? Mira, most home cooks—and not just in Pittsburgh—are intimidated by things professionals take for granted. They view cooking as a necessity and a chore. Take Renata here,” he says, patting her gently on the shoulder.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean? I love to cook!” Renata says, slapping Michael’s hand as he reaches for a bite of her lemon soufflé.
“Renata, my love, you are an assembler par excellence. You have impeccable food sense and you know where in New York to buy the freshest and best prepared food. In fact, no one can assemble a better meal than you. But when was the last time you actually cooked anything?”
“Divino,” Renata says, closing her eyes and tasting the soufflé. She drops a big spoonful onto my bread plate, resisting my halfhearted attempts to refuse. Turning to Michael, Renata says, “Why on earth would anyone cook when you can just come here and eat this?”
Michael smiles at her and says to me, “Why would anyone write anything after Hemingway, or compose a symphony after Beethoven, or paint a landscape after Turner? It isn’t necessarily about doing it better. It’s about doing it.”
“Michael, that isn’t what I meant. It’s just, why should I slave away in the kitchen when I can just come here and pay for someone really talented to do all the work while I enjoy the results?”
“Tell her, Mira,” Michael says, reaching back into Renata’s dish for another taste.
I know what Michael means. If someone told me that I could travel anywhere and eat anything I wanted, choosing, if I so desired, to eat only in Michelin-rated restaurants for the rest of my life, but the price for such a gourmand’s dream would be that I could never cook again, I’d turn it down without a moment’s hesitation. It’s about doing your best by a pile of mussels sweet from the sea, or holding a perfect tomato, warm, rosy, and smelling like summer, and knowing that there are a dozen ways that you can prepare it, each one a delicious homage. I look away, unable to answer Michael. Maybe it’s seeing Jake again, or being back in New York, or talking food while eating a great meal with people you care about; whatever it is, it’s been building since the instant I stepped off the plane at LaGuardia. Suddenly, I don’t know how I have been able to resist it all these months, the raging itch to be back in a kitchen.
I shake my head and stand up. Michael and Renata, spoons poised, look up at me. “I’ve got to go,” I tell them.
I grab my purse and deposit a kiss on each of their cheeks.
“Where are you going?” Renata calls after me.
“Michael’s right. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.