When we were young and heartless
Rules of engagement, table manners... and a very good recipe for fish soup
I had told Helen all about Damien, an artist whose work I’d fallen in love with. The painting I loved was, as it happened, a self-portrait. Helen encouraged me to buy it—to assert my own taste and independence. I arranged to meet the artist at the coffeehouse at school where his pictures hung on the wall. The idea was to agree on a price, but instead I agreed to a trade: I would sit for Damien for one of the pre-Raphaelite-style paintings he’d been commissioned to create. In exchange, he’d give the little self-portrait to me.
I’ll bet, by now, you can guess what this led to.
Damien was really quite loopy, although enormously talented. He dressed like a Cossack in clothes he made for himself on a treadle sewing machine. He even made his own boots. He didn’t exactly think zippers were the invention of the devil—but, just to be on the safe side, he used buttons. I didn’t know this at the time, when I first met him—and not even for a while after I started living with him. But he used to like to dress up in German uniforms from World War II and ride around in a motorcycle sidecar with one of his equally loopy friends and play war games.
Well, now, of course, red flags would have been springing up everywhere. But all I saw was this really handsome guy who looked like he’d just walked out of an episode of Masterpiece Theater. Most important of all, here was someone who was living as an artist. He painted—that’s all he did. He was managing to live on what he made as a painter. For me, he seemed to be a six-foot-two doorway to a life I dreamed of for myself but hadn’t been brave enough to try for it.
I didn’t want to have another affair; I wanted to leave. I wanted to go off with Damien and live the artist’s life in a shack he rented on Cannery Row in Monterey.
I was sure that Helen would try to talk me out of it. Instead she took my hand and looked into my eyes, her own eyes shining, and said with a beautiful French accent, “Courage!”
I still feel guilty for the heartless way in which I left Tom, and for the hurt I left behind me. Tom was devastated; my relationship with my sister has never recovered. It wasn’t just me playing house, although I’d initiated the game. I’d built a fantasy, invited them in and then left one day because it no longer suited me. I didn’t even consider what the whole thing would do to Dori, far too caught up in my own drama to see or understand or even to care. All I knew was that I’d fallen madly, passionately and, as I thought then, irrevocably in love.
***
I worked hard at forging an amicable relationship with Stewart. In fact, doing so became my work that year. Based on a one-page proposal, I got a contract from a local publisher to write a self-help book on how to stay friends with your ex.
I had four months to do the interviews and write the book—and all the while I was running the boardinghouse and doing my best to be a good mom. I never would have been able to do it all if Colby hadn’t been so willing to spend so much time with my son.
Stewart was just starting to adjust, at this point, to the presence of Colby in my life and Kyle’s. And Colby was bending over backwards to win Stewart’s acceptance. He actually bought Stewart a beautiful little wooden dinghy—not a bribe, exactly, but definitely a way to that man’s heart. I don’t think Stewart was jealous of Colby on my account, but rather because of Kyle’s obvious attachment to him.
But as much as he adored Colby, Kyle was equally devoted to Stewart.
There was a period of about a week when Kyle made a point of telling me every day that he loved his dad more than he loved me. I finally explained to him that it’s all right to feel what he feels, but it’s not all right to hurt other people willfully in the expression of his feelings. We had a goodnight hug, and while we hugged I started sobbing.
“What are you doing?” he asked me. “Is it the C-word?”
“Yes, I’m crying,” I told him.
“H or S?” he asked me. He had lately, with some enthusiasm, been learning to spell.
“S,” I said. “Goodnight, Kyle. I love you so much. Sweet dreams.”
After I closed the door, he called me back into the room. “There’s just one more thing, Mom.” I felt rather afraid of what he’d say, as he’d just before defended his statement by saying, “Well, it’s the truth.”
“What is it, Kyle?”
Looking straight at me, he said, “I love you, Mom,” and I started sobbing all over again, this time H.
After another bit of hugging, I stroked his hair out of his eyes and told him that I felt closer to him now, after we’d talked; and he said, yes, that he hadn’t been very loving toward me lately. At that point, because I didn’t have any other experience, I thought all six-year-olds spoke that way. Kyle kissed me again before I tucked him in for the last time that night.
***
With the exception of the vegetable-averse Rafael, all my borders really loved my cooking. And so it came as a shock to me when my houseful of American freshmen sat down at my table and looked askance at my food. The Vietnamese-American girl, Felicity, was polite about it, as was the big blond Tess, also from Orange County. But six-foot-seven Jason, whose mother practically forced me to rent a room to him, was downright rude. He’d look at the artfully arranged plate of food I placed before him and make a face as if I’d told him to eat vomit.
At heart, I think, Jason was probably a rather shy person—perhaps self-conscious about his excessive height—who found it easier to argue than relate in any less barricaded way. He must have argued all the time with his parents. He was in the habit of arguing, and so he argued with me, and argued with Felicity, and argued with Tess, and argued with Colby. He pretty much ignored Kyle.
Jason had the nicest room, the one just off the dining room, overlooking the creek (and directly above my bedroom). I could hear him typing away on his computer, far into the night, playing games in cyberspace with the only friends he seemed to have. He was on that computer during all his waking hours. He tried to convince all the rest of us that we should rig a network between our computers, so that we could all play games with each other in cyberspace (instead of relating, face to face, as human beings).
Sit-down dinner was the rule in my house—but sit-down dinner was really hard for Jason.
I would have to call him to dinner many times before he joined us, with the greatest reluctance. And then, when he joined us, he’d make horrible sounds or faces at his food.
Kyle watched all of this with fascination.
“May I speak with you, Jason,” I said on one of these occasions, “in the kitchen?”
Once he’d groaned and scraped his chair on the floor and lumbered into the kitchen behind me, Jason glowered down from thirteen inches above my head, hands on his hips.
“What do you want?” he snarled at me.
It hurt my neck to look up at him. “I want you to act polite at my table. I don’t want my son to see this kind of behavior.”
Well, I was a fool to think that Jason was going to in any way back down or concede any wrongdoing on his part. Every point I made was met by an argument, barked at me without even the pretense of deference before an adult who was more or less a stranger. I honestly thought he might hit me, or at least give me a shove.
My hands were on my hips, too. “Jason,” I said, pointing upward at his narrow chest. “This is unacceptable behavior. I want you to go to your room.”
He started to argue, but I cut him off. “Now—go to your room!”
He looked astonished, opened his mouth to speak, and then I said to him, “Now!”
My hands were shaking by the time I finally sat down to join the others at dinner. Kyle ate everything on his plate, for once, without a word.
Later that night, I called Jason’s parents, determined to make them take him away. But they were out. Probably they were out celebrating.
***
Fish soup by any other name
Bouillabaisse
Fish shops usually save and sell the odd-size trim pieces of expensive fish and sell it for much less than they sell it as steaks or fillets. Varieties such as swordfish and halibut—usually out of my range if I’m cooking for a crowd—are affordable if bought as “chunks.”
Buy one pound of fresh fish chunks—some kind of fish, like swordfish or halibut, which is not too oily, doesn’t fall apart, and is free of bones at this stage.
Make a broth by sautéing a couple of cups of chopped onions in 1/4 cup of olive oil. Add 2 bell peppers, cut into bite-size strips. When the onions are translucent, throw in 2 large or 3 medium-sized potatoes, peeled and sliced. Add 2 minced cloves of garlic, 1 bay leaf, a quart of boiling water and 1/4 cup of tomato paste. Cover and simmer until the potatoes are tender—about half an hour.
Add your fish chunks and cook for ten minutes. Then add as much shellfish as you feel like: mussels in their shells, peeled shrimp, crabmeat is great (if you can afford it and it’s in season). Scallops are nice, too. Simmer some more, until the mussels pop open (discard any that don’t).
A lovely touch is to thinly slice some leftover baguette. Heat your oven up to 450. Brush the baguette slices with olive oil, then bake, oiled side up, until they turn golden brown. When they’re still hot, rub each little croute with the cut side of a clove of fresh garlic.
Sprinkle each bowl of bouillabaisse with chopped fresh parsley and top with three croutes.
In Marseille, they’ll tell you that it’s not bouillabaisse unless it’s made with the local rascasse—but anyone who wants to make an issue of it probably don’t deserve a place at your table. Bouillabaisse sounds nicer than “fish stew”—but it’s delicious no matter what you call it. Add a bottle of wine, a green salad, and a cold night.
If there are children at your table, teach them early on that the difference between a good meal and a great meal is who you eat it with.