Amid all those Oh-My-Wonderful-Sainted-Beautiful-Mother posts today, I thought I’d throw something together for the rest of us, who give out of obligation, not love.
Love
43 posts
This spill…was special.
I knew I was in trouble after I’d spent ten minutes crawling around on concrete in the 25 degree weather, in the icy breeze blowing off the lake, looking for a tooth that may, at one time, have been in my mouth, without success. The part of brain not in crisis mode and still well-acquainted with my Girl Scout training said, “Say, I understand you’re concerned about spitting out mouthfuls of blood but do you think you should still be on the ground in icy weather when you might be going into shock? I mean, don’t you think your dentist could just make you a new tooth, if need be?” This is the part of my brain that likes to sprawl on a ledge overseeing the panic neurons as it relaxes with a glass of Riesling.
This odd improvisational experiment began as a dialogue in the comments between me and Mothergooch, and has grown into… something else. After you read the beginnings of our improvisational romance novel, feel free to add your own input to the story in the comments. Don’t worry about consistency, just try to stay true to who you perceive the characters to be. We’ll see where — and in how many different directions — it winds up, but this is how it began:
Mothergooch: Sinner or saint, we can never be sure which Salome we are going to get.
Salome Valentine: This sounds like the opening to a deliciously trashy romance novel.
MG: His body was hard — not hard like Milosevic, the Serbian strongman, but hard like the marble on your shower floor, when you fall and bang your knee.
SV: His member was hard: not hard like marble, but hard like he’d taken a fistful of blue pills roughly four hours earlier.
MG: He tore open her blouse like a Publisher’s Clearing House letter in which he and some guy named Steven Bouber from Stockton, California, were potential finalists for the ten-million-dollar prize.
SV: She felt no self-consciousness when he tore open her blouse, because her plastic surgeon had assured her that the implants she recently purchased could withstand a direct fall onto a marble floor, or the hardness of a Serbian strongman.
MG: He awakened her slumbering womanhood with his double tall loin latte. “Starbuck!” she cried.
SV: “No, my name is Santiago,” he replied in an irresistible and nearly incomprehensible accent as he moved her to operatic ululations with his manly thrusts.
MG: Claire felt swept away by this dark stranger, a helpless dust bunny in the roaring cacophony of his gas-powered leaf blower.
SV: Internal explosions like really bad gas – but far more pleasurable – coursed through her body as Santiago played her body like a master playing a cheap violin.
JohnDoeche: Sated like pensioners at a cheap Chinese buffet, they lay and stared into each others’ eyes wondering who would go to the bathroom first.
ChipsRafferty: As Santiago took the cigarette from his lips, its glow was reflected in his gold teeth making him look like an Inca deity.
MG: He gently doubled her entendre like a powerful and mildly awkward simile.
CR: Claire moved closer but Santiago moved away. She slid in closer still, only to find he was just giving up the wet spot.
CR: As they drifted off to a sated slumber, Santiago heard Claire whisper in her last semi-waking moment. It was the name of a long lost lover, or perhaps the man who drove her to despair. It sounded like…. El Goooche. Santiago turned over, disappointed, and ever so gently farted, while thinking, “Man, I gotta lighten up on the Mexican caviar.”
Alluson: Claire, uncomfortable by the growing dampness against her hip, started awake as she imagined the distinct aroma of dead fish eggs. She stared at the soft outline of Santiago’s hairy moob and began to ponder if she had in fact made a grave mistake.
SV: Santiago’s moob was, in fact, a carefully sculpted pectoral muscle, but Claire was too inebriated from orgasms to recognize this fact. Eventually, he knew that she would succumb to his charms, stay with him even without the restraints, and allow him to make sweet love to her again, once the effects of the chloroform wore off.
A recent chance encounter with an old friend led to nostalgic gossiping, as it often does. This included remembering an affair among former mutual colleagues, which prompted reflection. Not so much about the well-worn themes of “Why People Cheat?” – I’ve watched enough of that to think I get the various motivations. More specifically we wondered about the role of the third party, and how he or she fits in. How she or he thinks, and how she or he is viewed by others involved.
Assumptions
I want to separate out some of the common themes that come up when thinking about affairs. So I’d ask you to assume (or at least trust me about) three things:
- I’d like to take gender off the table, if that is ever possible. There are plenty of important and interesting gendered themes when discussing affairs, but that isn’t what captivates me in this particular case. In fact, it is relevant to this point that, with my former colleagues, the individual having the affair was the wife. Or, even more to the point, that it is not relevant.
- Assume that we do not need to care about the “injured” party. How the affair impacts that individual is off the table. This husband was an ass; and one could make a case that he simply didn’t care. You can imagine him as abusive or withdrawn or also cheating or whatever. I promise I’m not asking for this assumption so that we can feel sympathy for “home-wreckers,” but to get beyond thinking about affairs from the perspective of the other spouse, and try to make sense of the relationship between those involved in the affair.
- Assume that the two married individuals either can not or at least will not divorce. Whether this is due to religion, money, children. Again, it doesn’t matter what specifically the reason is, just that this is the circumstance. Long-term changes are unlikely.
The Third Party on the Third Party
So in this situation, what motivates the third party to be involved in such a scenario? If this were a friend, we would tend to tell them that this is simply not a good idea, wouldn’t we? Haven’t most of us had this conversation? Or, let’s be honest, listened to someone else have it with us? Certainly the individual could just be interested in short-term sex, but does that ever really work? (Have romantic comedies taught us nothing?) Are they holding out irrational hope for a future? In a short life, are they not worried that they are spending limited time and emotional capital on an ultimately unavailable partner? Is that the point?
The third party that I knew, I knew well, but not that well. He knew that this was a mistake but couldn’t pull himself out of it. He ignored other possible relationships because they might interfere with his availability. Ultimately, his motivations were not that different from any motivations for a relationship: he enjoyed the human contact, comfort, and energy that came from this woman. The long-term was too vague to interfere with the short-term glow that he had. And, don’t we all understand, the downsides were easily rationalized away. The highs of the roller coaster imprinting much more clearly than the lows.
The First Party on the Third Party
And this leads to what is particularly interesting to me. Given the above, how does this person having the affair rationalize it? Not rationalize what she or he is doing to the spouse, but what she or he is doing to the third party? In theory, this is someone that the first party has developed a strong emotional and physical bond with. A friend, a colleague, a lover. And yet, unlike the close friend who is saying “run away” this person does everything possible to pull the third party in closer. To actively limit the third party’s ability to grow and develop long-term meaningful relationships. I think of this in terms of spouses left behind during war as well. The spouse at home is lonely and needs support, but they must know that ultimately, even if the other spouse returns and never finds out, that in exchange for months of love and support, the paramour will receive nothing more than emotional pain. (If you just realized that this is the second time I’ve made a point that can be illustrated by a Natalie Portman film, bonus points to you.)
It is no new interpretation to say the story of Dracula is ultimately a story about sex. An old man’s thirst for the young that is so overpowering that it literally drains the life out of her. And it is true that there is a Vampiric quality to so many affairs. (And this is also why the apparently mostly-sexless Vampire-lead of Twilight is so stupid.) Perhaps the first party’s needs simply require fundamentally ignoring the life of the third party. Blocking it out. Having just finished Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad Love Story – which, like all of his books, I do not recommend – the main (unmarried) character’s internal need to provide provide oral sex for his much younger girlfriend was viscerally representative. It is not alone.
But people are not all vampires; are not all narcissists. It can’t be that everyone in an affair simply lives this disjointed life, psychologically ignoring yet attempting to satisfy the third party. How does the first party explain away the incredibly difficult and untenable position they are placing this other person in, someone they care about, often deeply? Is this why, in fact, so few affairs are true “love affairs” and why so many involve other benefits for the third party?
Distance and benefit?
The old, profoundly lame, joke is that men don’t sleep with prostitutes for the sex, but to get them to leave. I wonder if there isn’t something slightly deeper occurring here. Perhaps, the going away actually stands for limiting emotional connection in a way that helps the man rationalize his ultimate lack of availability to the third party. The first party feels that affection is being shown in the only ways possible.
We see this in mistress or cicisbeo culture as well. Or in terms of “sleeping ones way to the top.” Or so many celebrity affairs that are so well-publicized. The married individual can not provide the standard promises of a relationship, so other forms of benefit are substituted. Benefits that the first party can rationalize as a potentially fair substitute for a real relationship, either explicitly or implicitly. And in these cases, the third party can also sleep a little more soundly (on those nights when he or she is alone), knowing that the benefits are either a signal of promise or at least something that makes it all explainable, worth it.
Equally Unattainable
And perhaps this is why so many affairs involve situations where both couples are married or equally unattainable. Or why our shared anecdotes reference uncommon yet re-occurring events – reunions, conferences, etc. In these situations, life frames the expectations so narrowly that no one can have them. Or at least have fewer of them. Both parties are in both roles or the time-frame is so limited that the impact on the other’s emotional life is inherently limited. It’s a vacation from life instead of a part of one’s life.
In the story of my colleagues, the third party ultimately moved to another job across the country. The practical distance gave him the emotional distance he needed. He started a new life, a new emotional life. He is married now. Happily, last I heard.
“I believe that we are all spiritual beings having a human experience, and not the other way around.” –
This is the third in an ongoing series of Crasstalk posts regarding spirituality.
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In the comments of another post, I joked that I could write this column while being an asshole. I got so much encouragement for the idea that I decided to try. Since I’m really not that good of an actress, instead of being a bitch, I decided to write about when spiritually-oriented people are assholes, and vice versa.
First, I’d like to dispel the myth that people on a spiritual path must be kind, nice and even-tempered 100% of the time. A great teacher of mine once told me that her path to loving all beings was fraught with challenges, and that the most spiritual she could bring herself to be in traffic was to flip off drivers who cut her off and scream, “I’m sending you love, asshole!”
Personally, my patience is tested when it comes to anything political. It is a Sisyphean task for me to not profoundly judge people who are anything other than liberals (to the left of Dennis Kucinich). The most intensive challenge for me is acknowledging our common humanity. In truth, my boyfriend has had to remind me numerous times that hate is not a spiritual tool.
The greatest obstacle of anyone endeavoring to pursue an inner life is anyone or anything that tests his or her longstanding beliefs. Paradoxically, your worst enemy may turn out to be your most profound teacher, because those most unlike ourselves often teach us more than those with whom we have much in common. A good friend of mine has a favorite line that he uses on people who either come at him with unbridled animosity or adoringly heap praise upon him. He replies simply: “I’ll bet you say that to all the mirrors.”
Since I was very young, my innate tendency has been to try to understand where other people are coming from. I don’t revel in confrontation, and if someone attacks me personally I will usually try to diffuse it: a kind of spiritually tolerant aikido. But I don’t suffer fools gladly, and if someone crosses me after I’ve given them the benefit of the doubt and the magnanimity of my kindness, I unceremoniously cut them out of my life without looking back.
I am always pleasantly surprised when someone whom I have perceived as intrinsically shallow or bitter turns out to have become that way purely by circumstance. As with the examples above of when spiritual people are assholes, when assholes are spiritual it’s often out of character and somewhat jarring. Just as I laughed at and learned from my teacher’s self-deprecating admission which now titles this post, I’ve also received rich insights from people whom I thought for sure wouldn’t know a burning bush if it blew up in their face (Don Henley’s lyrical turn of phrase).
Thanks for reading and commenting, assholes.
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New Yorkers always insist that the city is not an anonymous machine but actually just a series of small neighborhoods. We insist that we know our dry cleaner, our coffee shop guy, our grocery store cashier just as well as you all know yours.
Actually, that’s not true, we always insist that we know them even better.
Actually, that’s not true either. We New Yorkers are a narcissistic bunch. We insist that they know us even better. Trust me, your local dry cleaner does not care about you the same way my dry cleaner cares about me.
In any event, when I have lived in other places, one of the reasons you knew the “kid who bags your groceries” is because of some long generational history. The gossip you discuss as you head back to your car is along the lines of “Oh you know, that’s Johnny’s nephew. His momma went to school with…” Etc. Well no, we don’t have as much of that in Manhattan (although it is more common in the other boroughs). Our stories are a little bit different.
And I think it’s only fair that those of you who are not from a big city filled with people from all over the world be introduced to what some of our neighborhood knowledge looks like, and the center of it all is the local bodega.*
*Details have been changed to protect the innocent. Also, no, I do not actually believe that any of this is unique to New York. I promise. Okay, maybe a little bit. Nah, not really.
The Turtle Era
The Turtle Era was the best era. Turtle was the Day Manager when I first moved into my neighborhood. His first language was Spanish, and he spoke perfect English. He insisted that I only use Spanish and that he only use English. Because, you know, that’s how you improve. But he had also learned Korean, the language of the store’s owners, and Portuguese, because there was small Brazilian community in the neighborhood. The store was always perfectly kept while he was in charge. Well-stocked, clean. And the coffee. Dear god the coffee he made was perfect. He was funny, charming, handsome, confident, told a great story. I really wanted to drink with Turtle. All the time. The owner’s wife was confused about his name and called him Tut. Which stuck. About half of the customers called him Turtle, and about half called him Tut.
Turtle’s assistant was named Nick. Nick was quiet but polite. He was never completely happy with the questionable wage and hour policies of the owners, but you wouldn’t have known it. One of the nicest men I’ve ever known, with a genuine smile and a kick-ass mustache.
The night shift during The Turtle Era was run by a quirky older guy from rural somewhere. I don’t know where he was from, or what language he spoke, but he was differently from the country of some country. (You know how you can sometimes tell a rural accent even if you don’t know the language?) I was never sure what we were talking about when I went in, but I think we were talking about something. I don’t know what his name was. I’m not even sure how I could have asked. His assistant was a quiet guy from the pacific coast of Mexico. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say more than two words. In fact, sometimes I didn’t even know he was there and then “POOF!” he’d be standing right behind you. Basically a not-very-haunting ghost of a man. You will not hear about him again because that is all I know, even though he is still there.
Turtle was lucky. He married for immigration status, or so it was implied, but he fell in love. They had an adorable little girl. His wife, a midtown professional, got a promotion that took her to New Jersey. He went with her, and they bought a big house for the family. Last I heard he was managing a restaurant out there and going crazy because he had never needed to drive before, and he didn’t have his driver’s license yet. But he was happy.
The Nick Era
Poor Nick. When he took over for Turtle, they didn’t hire a new assistant. So Nick had to do everything. And I don’t think they gave him a raise, not at first. But we gave him a quick primer on New York labor laws and how they did, in fact, apply to everybody. And then they did. He was so politely sad about it all. He would politely ask me what it was like to have a good job. He would listen to traditional music and count the hours until he could go home and rest and have a beer. He was sending money home to his wife, where she ran a farm. Each paycheck went to building up the livestock, building a fence, fixing a barn. Nick spoke a little English, and I speak a little Spanish. Between the two of us, we could figure it all out. Nick also had taken steps to learn how to make coffee from Turtle before he left. God I miss Turtle’s coffee.
Then someone called in a Housing Violation on his building, and the city discovered his illegal apartment. We offered him a little help to find a new place, but he politely refused. Before they could shut it down he discovered he had cancer. He decided that it would be best if he went back home. If he could get medical help, he could get it safely at home. If he could not, then he wanted to spend his remaining days on the farm with his wife. He knew that either way, once he crossed the southern border, he would likely never come back. No one has heard from Nick since he was getting a ride south from Atlanta with a friend.
The night shift did not change during The Nick Era, but I got to know the Country Man a little better. I still don’t know what we were talking about, but we talked a lot. When the store raised the prices on cigarettes he made a disgruntled face and refused to charge me the new price. He would always round my charges, refusing my fifteen cents here or my seven cents there. Either he was overcharging someone else or the owners just liked him, because he certainly wasn’t paying it out of his paycheck.
The Son Era
Good kid. Friendly, happy, got good grades, played in a soccer league on the weekends. New York Mets fan, but nobody’s perfect. The son had come in on occasion to fill in as necessary, but once Nick left, he took over the day shift. He had recently finished college and was applying to graduate schools. He insisted on calling me by my last name, which freaked me out. No matter how many times I tried to get him to stop, he couldn’t seem to do so. “Are you watching the game today Mr. LeSabre? Should be a great one!” During his tenure they hired a new assistant, a really young kid, Johnny, who spoke only Spanish at first. Johnny practiced his English like crazy. He would step behind the counter as often as possible and come up with the most unnecessarily complicated questions he could. Just to practice. Johnny seemed to believe that my life consisted solely of making a lot of money, going out on wild dates, and drinking as much as possible. He had no evidence for any of this.
Johnny met a girl that lived in another borough, and two weeks later he quit. A cousin of the son was hired to replace him, and he is still there. I think the cousin is confused about his job responsibilities. He seems to think he is a security guard at a bank because all he does is stand about three feet from the counter like a statue. No one seems comfortable telling him otherwise. Much dust has accumulated since the cousin started.
The Dad Era
And now we are in the Dad era. The son has gone back to school, and I’m stuck with grumpy under-paying, shitty-coffee-making dad. If you buy cigarettes, he won’t give you matches unless you ask. If you buy coffee, you have to ask for the napkin. God forbid you ask for a sleeve. You’d think you just tried to shake down the ATM machine. And he never smiles. He is a mean old man. (Sometimes he forces a smile, but you know that forced smiles are worse than no smile at all.) But I don’t really mind. We have our routine.
The older son is there on occasion too now. A character and a half. I appreciate that he does not care even a little bit. He would rather sit outside and smoke or rush home to his (admittedly gorgeous) new wife. Since Turtle left, he’s by far the person I’m most inclined to just hang out with for a bit. Because he smokes. And because he will inevitably go on some rant about something in the pop culture news. (He’s like a particularly incensed Crasstalk commenter now that I think about it.)
And recently, Country Man has gone from the night shift. His wife, back in the old country, has become terminally ill. He hasn’t seen her in years and wants to spend her last few months with her. He may come back when she passes away, but maybe not. I hope he does. I miss Country Man. Country Man’s replacement unintentionally sold cigarettes to minors on multiple occasions and got the store shut down for a week. The doors were locked for the first time in thirty years. They didn’t even know where the keys were.
The jarring feeling the next day when I went to buy my morning coffee, when, distracted by my email, I ran straight into a closed door and a big ol’ New York City notice, made me realize just how much a part of my life the little store on the corner is. Good or bad, happy or sad, it’s a part of my life, and a part of what keeps the city from feeling so anonymous. I’m no fool; I don’t pretend we are friends or even colleagues. But I know them, and they know me.
Images from here.
“I want you. Now.”
Well, who doesn’t want to hear that? So, despite the alarm going off, a curious kitty, and a pillow gone askew, I found myself right where I belonged – under 280 pounds of muscular manly man who required my presence and devotion.
At a rather critical moment, he stopped his attentions. In a Brooklyn-y growl, I was informed: “Ya bettah know that you’re the best thing that evah happened right heah.”
I couldn’t help it. This is so not like me, but I busted out crying (f’n Valentine’s Day and hormones) and buried my face in his big be-tatted shoulder. He grabbed my chin, kissed me, and recommenced driving me insane.
Without being more graphic I will tell you that I was his and he was mine.
So what’s that all about?
Well, I think it’s a bit different with two guys as opposed to a hetero couple or two lesbians. The underlying motivation – sharing physical pleasure with your beloved, and being as close to them as possible – is the same no matter what plumbing one has. But with two men there is more freight. I think, for a man, opening yourself up to a woman has a bit less risk. She doesn’t inherently understand what being a man entails. What she knows and feels is that the person with her is giving 100% – but 100% of what? Some women can understand the concept of manhood – the expectations of responsibility, the stifling of emotion. I must point out that many women are emotionally stronger than men because they have to be. But being a man is not a thing which is easily explained to someone who isn’t.
Two men in love are often opposite sides of a coin. Where there’s overlap – ego, stubbornness, appreciation of art, beauty and life – they simply nod and accept it. Where there’s conflict – largely due to jockeying for position in the relationship – it can either make or break a couple. When two dudes fight over a lamp, the lamp is very often not the issue. It’s a struggle for who’s going to run the show. Smart gay men – like smart straight men – figure out pretty fast that the person who appears to run the show often doesn’t.
I keep our home clean, and I make sure that Cap’n has tasty noms, clean clothes, and gets to the doctor and dentist when he needs to. I also manage our finances. That could be subservient, but it’s not. I have not had to worry about car maintenance for 7 years, and any chore I wish to defer will be done by him. I write notes and leave flowers, he sneaks up behind me and gives me stealth hugs, often with fantastically dirty commentary. I have not had to drive to a family event since 2003. He shines all our boots and shoes, I plan our vacations. We plant flowers on our terrace together. It works. I am one of the luckiest Gays that ever Gayed.
When I am very old, I will look across a well-worn Ethan Allen dining table at the Cap’n, and while his jaw will be a bit less square and his skin a tad more papery, I will find myself in those caramel-colored eyes and want to rub those big arthritic shoulders.
There is no Hallmark card for this. But that’s all right.
Earlier today in the comments, I shared a video clip (link below) – Wendy Francisco’s beautiful song “God and Dog.” Since it was so enthusiastically received, I am writing a whole post around it.
First, I’d like to address the word “God” – as there was some debate in a recent post when the word came up. I invite those who do not believe in God to just substitute whatever word works for you. I would hate to have the pure beauty of this song and the point of this post to be lost in semantic disagreement.
Many Crasstalk readers are familiar with my profound passion for dogs – my dogs; dogs I’ve rescued who have moved on to new owners or passed on; every dog I have ever known. I feel a deep affinity for dogs that is sometimes echoed in my relationships with people. (My favorite people, of course, are dog lovers.)
Often, I mourn for the millions of dogs who are euthanized in shelters in America alone each year for want of caring owners. But even more, I celebrate my small victories, in caring for my dogs well, in helping to rescue dogs who are living on the street here in Mexico, in online activism for many animal rights groups.
Dogs aren’t referred to as “man’s best friend” by accident. The bond between dog and owner – I call myself a dog-parent, but admittedly, I am a little weird – can be a profound one for both participants. The relatively short life span of dogs makes the bond even more bittersweet. So cherish your doggies while you can, and adopt a shelter dog if you’re able.
I’d like to mention two organizations that you can help out just by internet clicks:
Freekibble (www.freekibble.com) and The Animal Rescue Site (www.theanimalrescuesite.com) both give food to homeless dogs across the country.
Ok, so I’m a happily married Gay who gets kissed more than his fair share, sometimes as gratitude for a taystay dinner and sometimes – the best times – just because. Let’s review some smooching stuff before Monday, ok?
Kisses derive from something immensely gross – an adult mammal passing chewed-up food to a youngun. But we love to kiss – at least, those of us with passion do, and it is a language all its own.
The Blown Kiss: “Daddy, I’m on a roller coaster!” or “You vicious ex-wife.” Either way, it has little meaning.
The Euro / Hollywood / WASP Air Kiss: This one says “I publicly ally myself with you, and I respect your makeup artist.”
The Kitty / Doggie / Toddler Kiss: You have always been nice to me, and as a fine judge of character, I pronounce you to be desirable company. The intent is pure and sincere.
The Neck Rub With Scruff: Obviously for men only. Dude, take your unshaven (but clean!) chin and run it down the side of the neck of your beloved, very lightly, while adding kisses along the way. He or she will go absolutely insane.
The Face Caress: For either gender, but women are better at it. Softly run your hand along your beloved’s jawline, then kiss him or her. This makes them “yours”,
The Big Bro Kiss: “I am secure in my masculinity and honesty to the point where I can publicly take you in my arms and declare that you are my family. I do not care if you are my buddy or my best friend’s wife, you are someone who I would take a bullet for and I don’t care who knows it. ” (Often tear-inducing.)
The Big Sis Kiss: “Were you having a crisis? You aren’t now. I’m here and you can let it all out. And, since I’m a Strong Woman, I will fix it. Oh, and about Mom? Yes, she is a bitch, and no, it isn’t you.”
The Man Sex Kiss: “You’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen and I must have you right this minute and please do me the honor of letting me take you, over and over again, because you’re so damn hot and all I can think about is you and your body and where to touch next.”
The (Straight) Woman Sex Kiss: “If you don’t take this to the next level I will scream and I may scream anyway because you smell like a man who I want to make a baby with even though I can’t do that now and your eyes make me feel like the most desirable thing on the planet and I want and need and need and want.”
The I Love You Kiss: There are no words, but there is a process. It’s a kiss, followed by eye contact, then another kiss.
Cap’n was working late last night. A psycho decided to kill his stepfather, girlfriend and her mother, then stab a random pedestrian, then carjack someone and stab her too. Since he was tearing around Brooklyn in a stolen Pontiac with every cop in the NYPD looking for him, it was Cap’n’s job to find out if he had any prior arrests. And he had four, two of which were sealed because he was a juvenile… at the age of 20! How ridiculous is that?
So, the joy of my Valentine Party Basket was somewhat diminished in his office after this, which irked me.
There are few restaurants in his gritty precinct, and he wasn’t going to order in, so he’d be ravenous when he got home. I decided to do it up even though I’d likely be asleep.
Chicken, Risotto, Broccoli feast
4 chicken thighs, skin on
1 shallot
¼ cup olive oil
¼ cup lemon juice (1 medium lemon)
2 tablespoons sherry
Black pepper to taste
Sea salt to taste
Fennel seeds
½ tsp. thyme
½ tsp oregano
Peel and slice the shallots thin. Insert the slices under the skin of each chicken thigh. Whisk everything else together in a small bowl. Line a small roasting pan with parchment paper and arrange the thighs on it. Pour marinade over it. Sprinkle with more pepper, if desired. Roast at 425 for 45 minutes to an hour.
Risotto: I use Rice Select Italian Rice and follow the package directions, BUT – I use chicken broth instead of water, and the last cup of liquid added is sherry. I also add mushrooms and cooked shallots.
Broccoli – frozen florets, blanched for 2 to 3 minutes in water at a rolling boil, then plunged into ice water. To serve, microwave for one minute with 1 tbsp. butter and the juice of half a lemon. Serve with lemon wedge.
I whipped all this up, covered it carefully, and left a note about the really good chardonnay in the fridge door and the bagged salad in the crisper. Then I took a place setting of the china he got me for Christmas out of the cabinet and stacked it next to the serving dishes, along with a linen napkin and one of our crystal wine glasses. Then I took shower #3 of the day and went to sleep.
At 2 AM, I should not have been surprised to find my ear being nibbled and a scruffy chin running down my neck as the long t-shirt I sleep in was expertly removed. But I was. I mean, we both put in long days and Sex Night is usually Saturday. Spontaneous Sex Night usually happens when we’re both home at the same time. But there we were, and ’twas glorious. More glorious was going to the kitchen for the last of the chardonnay and finding that he’d done the dishes.
I make no guarantee that making this dish will result in what P.G. Wodehouse would call “the pash”. But it will increase your chances. If it does, plan on Saturday being a Lazy Day.