The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [97]
With that, I waved and pedaled away. I could feel Nick’s eyes on me as I turned a sharp corner and rode out of view. He’d seemed stunned when I said good-bye without any mention of hanging out again. But even though I’d had a good enough time, I wasn’t sure how much I really wanted to hang out with him again. Plus, I couldn’t wait to go home and make some noodles.
The following Wednesday night, I was standing in my kitchen, licking ice cream off a spatula. I’d just churned up a batch of fresh basil-infused ice cream and was trying it for the first time. My cell phone rang at ten thirty. It was Nick, and he said he had been hanging out with friends in the neighborhood. He asked if I wanted to grab a drink somewhere. I hesitated. First, it was a weeknight. Then, I had to clean up this ice-cream stuff. But earlier, I’d picked up a six-pack of beer, and I was downing one at the moment. So I offered him some beer and ice cream at my place instead.
About twenty minutes later, Nick pulled his bike into my apartment and awkwardly left it at the door. I offered him a beer and a bowl of basil ice cream. He glanced at the pots of herbs I had placed on my windowsill, which included basil.
“I’ve never heard of basil ice cream before,” he mused.
“It’s not that unusual,” I said. “Actually, my friends and I had some once, at a restaurant, one of the last times I went to one. That was about a year ago—no, more like two.” I suddenly realized how long it had been since I had been served a scoop of ice cream in an unfamiliar bowl.
We settled at the table and talked for a while. We quickly got on the topic of philosophy, as Nick had been reading a lot lately to prepare for grad school. I’d taken only one crash course in the subject in college and had a pretty limited knowledge of Western philosophy, so I was attentive to Nick’s ramblings, even though, deep down, I couldn’t help thinking the study was just a lot of hemming and hawing without action.
I noticed that Nick didn’t really finish his ice cream, and that irked me a little. I finished mine and went for seconds. It had a very strong presence of sweet, Italian basil leaves, from soaking a couple of handfuls in the milk and cream. It was deep, almost jade green in color.
After a very long time talking, I looked at my watch. It was almost two in the morning.
“Well, you probably need to get up for work in the morning,” Nick said, taking the cue.
Finally, I thought to myself. I was afraid he’d never say it.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
He got up to get his bike, and I followed him to the door. But then, as we stood and looked at each other for a moment, I had a feeling the night wasn’t over.
Like a pair of tigers, we both sort of lurched at each other’s faces at once. The kiss lasted long, too long, and I was standing too close to the hallway to my bedroom. Something came over me—a tide of recklessness—and as we gravitated through the hallway, cloying and dropping clothes, shoes, I almost felt like I was in a movie of someone, or something, not like myself.
But, when I woke up the next morning to go to work, with another body beside me, it was clear that was not the case.
Back to the perfect date meal: Perhaps the right meal really could make or break a date. What would that be? I was fond of making beautiful, picturesque, and dainty one-person courses for myself, whenever I felt like I needed a special treat. I was also fond of making ice cream. When would I have the chance to put it all together, a complete meal, for someone when it really mattered?
I shuddered, thinking of all the times I had tried to impress Ben with a romantic, home-cooked meal. I also had a strange feeling that I never wanted to see Nick again. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was cook a perfect datelike meal for myself—and myself alone.
That night, I came home with a single chunk of tenderloin wrapped in butcher paper. (I’d asked the butcher not to bag it further.) I turned the television to the news as I put on a pot of water to boil, adding two red potatoes. I had some wasabi mayonnaise