An Argentine Feast

Yesterday was the anniversary of the death of my friend, and I knew I would be sad.

In anticipation of God knows what kind of outburst from me, my dear husband said he would cook dinner.

Between the heat and my internal emotional tides I was a mess: irritable, angry and short-tempered--while also ready to burst into tears at anything. My poor boys.

We went and swam with a friend, and after two hours saoking in the pool with Benji doggie-paddling to me (without air) I felt my anger mellowing. Water always heals me.

I came home, opened the gate, and smelled something fantastic emanating from MY kitchen. I practically ran up all 43 stairs. In the hot kitchen was my beloved husband cooking his Milanesa--the feast of the poor in Argentina. He had set up the kitchen in stations--eggs to dip, flour to dip, and pancho bread crumbs before a quick buttery fry for the thin steaks in the pan. The Argentinean wine (delightfully cheap, deliciously bad) was already in his glass, and waiting for me in mine. I put on some Carlos Gardel (Jonathan lived in Buenos Aires for a year so is sophisticated in the ways of the Argentines and speaks Spanish with that musical Italian/Spanish accent).

I know almost nothing about Argentina except what Jonathan has told me, and that it seems to be a country full of wistfulness, sadness and poignant aching beauty. The tango, the sadness, the slow deterioration of a once glorious country, the endurance of horrible dictators and the desaparacedos, and the endless hope for success that never seems to materialize for them as a nation -- something about all of it resonates with something deep inside me.

We sat in our dining room at dusk, the hot wind blowing over us, the lemony buttery milanesa melting in our mouths, and a sharp, simple, vinegary green salad to accompany it all. Gardel sang his sad songs.

My mother cooked for me for 21 years. She was tired, and sick of it, and now I understand how wearying cooking day in and day out can be, even if you love food and spices and herbs and experimentation and ethnic adventures. I probably never said Thank You, though I always licked her pans clean. But now, to have a perfect meal cooked for me, for me alone, is one of the most sublime pleasures there is. To sit in the kitchen sipping wine while Jonathan scurried and sweated and cooked--divine! To just wander tipsy into the dining room to be served -- marvelous! And to be able to just float on my emotions and think of my friend, unencumbered by household tasks for one evening, truly the greatest gift of all!

No one cares much about it anymore, but to have one perfect meal cooked for you by someone who really loves you para me is one of life's sweetest, most sensual pleasures.

Gracias, mi amor, mi ciel, mi vida!