Hiding Under the Table

This man can cook, like the sun radiates heat on a warm summer’s day. It all started on our third date. He invited me over to his place for dinner, but I had no idea HE would be its creator. When I invite people over for dinner, it’s usually to check out the latest restaurant in my neighborhood. The people in my life know that coming over to my place for a meal means sitting down at a table within a three-block radius of my apartment.

But I arrived to find him humming in the kitchen and peering over a boiling cauldron of homemade tomato sauce. He threw in a “pinch of this” and a “splash of that,” a conductor orchestrating the most beautiful of sonatas. I found myself watching his shoulder muscles through his t-shirt while he worked, feeling turned on, and then realized with horror that I was objectifying this man in the kitchen—could I blame that on my feminist upbringing as well? He delivered the plates of food without any pomp and circumstance, but with the divine scents of garlic and seasonings wafting through the air. I thought defensively, “Well, this has got to smell better than it tastes,” until I had my first forkful. My senses were at once awakened and filled, my mouth watering with the simultaneous pleasure of desire and satisfaction. I never knew pasta sauce could taste so good. I was breathless but managed to sputter, “This is unbelievable.” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I want to cook for you. It makes me happy.” This is true.

It’s also true that I was still trying, in my own way, to be a modern woman at the time—which meant in this case that I was still dating other people—until our seventh date, when he invited me over to make homemade tortellinis. Together. I tentatively dipped my dough in the flour, as my thoughts got the best of me and I imagined dipping him in the flour, naked. I admit it—I compromised what could have been a great cooking lesson. We got distracted, and I remained ignorant—at least in terms of food—but the meal was delicious. And our relationship was off and running.

When I got sick, he made me soup, another recipe from the Italian heritage on his mother’s side. For our two-month anniversary, one of my presents was chicken marsala. (Turned out I wasn’t a vegetarian after all.) After watching a cooking show, he made me risotto with scallops and mushrooms. At the end of a hard day, I got penne pasta with pesto sauce from scratch. For New Year’s, he designed a black-eyed peas and rice concoction for good luck.

All of this “kitchen table wisdom” left me feeling nervous—fat, full, and happy, yes, but insecure just the same.