The guy next door.
January 23, 2011
“You are the closest man,” I said, I think.
It was a brief encounter with a neighbor. The lighting was low. He had eyes to triumph “old blue eyes,” and everything that went with it – including a wife I know and rather like.
From my freshman year at the University of Tulsa I have been described as “single-minded.” I am. Ditto when it comes to my two roommates, both Whippets. Try keeping up with a sight hound capable of 40 mph when attractive prey is spotted nearby. Some dogs cannot learn new tricks. I am resigned to being one of them.
I was in the moment – focused on what I needed and prepared to knock on more doors because I was cooking with gas. Why must it be difficult when you just want to cheat a little, tiny bit?
Hours earlier I had done my time working on upper body strength doing sun salutations in yoga class. There I was, nonetheless, on a neighbor’s doorstep with a jar of Arrabbiata sauce I couldn’t open by myself. I don’t even know what Arrabbiata sauce is but it sounded spicy and I like spicy.
I entertain on a budget (with greatly diminshed cooking skills). I was making a huge pot of red sauce . As I sautéed garlic, capers, scallions, wine, artichokes, I thought, “What is a jar of store-bought Arrabbiata sauce between girlfriends?” Wasn’t the dinner more about talking, sharing – all that good bonding stuff even us A-types do?!
Say what you will about shortcuts. I am 52. Simmering tomato sauce is but one thing I want to accomplish on a Sunday afternoon.
Your girlfriends will appreciate the big part: you organized the gathering of busy friends.
Always, Trix
