Our home is still in full Christmas mode, with unopened gifts under the tree (mostly mine and Richard’s; the little girl has, of course, opened all of hers), boxes of unwrapped presents I ordered in one corner, a hodgepodge of bits and pieces in yet another. It is a happy mess, but one I nevertheless cannot wait to set aright.
The gatherings continue, too – almost on a daily basis people flow into our life and home like a series of happy songs. And mealtime is always a chunky, merry feast. By that I never mean it is extravagant or excessive. Indulgent, maybe, yes; but then again why shouldn’t it be? Live to eat, not the other way around. Choose the latter and you deprive yourself of one of life’s easy pleasures.
Richard just cooks and cooks, whipping up a meal with whatever is available in our cupboard and refrigerator/freezer. And obediently, we just eat and eat. Lately, though, we have been enjoying quiet food, the type that soothes, over the more luscious dishes that seemed typical during the holidays. One night, after coming across a recipe for it in a book I was reading, all I wanted was milk toast. I so wish I knew how that recipe came to be. It reminds me of the kind of comfort and love only a parent can give; a feeling that hangs around like a happy dream long after the last soggy spoonful. I like to think it was concocted one rainy night, in a cozy kitchen, and eaten on wooden bowls on a wooden table, made by someone loved for someone she/he loved. It is nothing fancy, really, just bread toasted and buttered and torn into big pieces, dunked into a heated bowl that holds steaming hot milk, and seasoned very lightly with a bit of salt and pepper. The last step seems almost like an afterthought. I love this dish, but only when it’s still hot. The magic disappears the moment the heat does.
And then there is the scrambled egg, a dish that in my mind can never go wrong. I always like it with a little milk, all the more to make it fluffy and slippery. On yet another late night when we were craving something sweet, we saw half a cake sitting in the fridge, once upon a time absolutely perfect, but it was almost a week old and had gone a little too dry as far as chocolate cakes go. After pouring a generous cupful of fresh full cream milk, instantly it was rehashed into something perfect again – spongy, sodden, messy; just perfect for the moment. Then we nibbled on popcorn, at first eaten the way popcorn normally is, but then later on dunked in milk. A bit odd, admittedly, but it was good and it’s just food so why bother to validate the strangeness of it all?
And then there was strawberry ice cream, not strawberries and cream or strawberries and banana with mango, just plain strawberry ice cream. Milk is a wonderful thing. It dresses up everything. Into our cups splashes of milk went and I think I want to enjoy all kinds of ice cream that way, regardless of the flavor.
Leftovers, like sad stories, also have an appeal all their own and I am always curious how a dish from the night before would/could be reincarnated for next day’s meal. In pretty much the same way I am curious how a sad story can define something positive in a person’s life. But let’s leave that thought there for now.
With leftover ham or steak, cheese, and cream a pasta dish was made. We had it at midnight. Others just find themselves tucked into crusty sandwiches, or tossed into fried rice.
With the strange food (as far as combination, not necessarily taste, goes) naturally come strange situations. One night we had, in one and the same hour, a tipsy big man armed with ’80s moves dancing with a reed-thin girl grooving with ’90s frivolity. And they were dancing to music from the ’70s. Scattered all around them were five or six others, just lounging around, drinking hot chocolate and tea. As this was happening, on the next table was a broken man, a sad, lonely sight for such a happy night, lamenting on the mysteries of love lost, regained, lost again. Beside him was another man who, probably wanting to comfort him but not knowing how to, just kept on bringing out more and more food, feeding Sad Lonely Man like it was all he needed to heal from the inside out.
I, on the other hand, was convinced that all he needed was milk and a prayer. Even grown-up boys need milk. I so wanted to give him milk – with milk toast, with chocolate cake, with popcorn, with strawberry ice cream, even all of that together if that would make him feel better!
And as I looked at him, so sad and lonely, I wonder if he even felt Christmas, if he even had someone to enjoy some nice time with. I think about him and the many others I know like him as I continue to wrap presents, wishing them well. Pain is a private matter, and I know what I know about it, both good and bad. It never goes away gently into the night. And sad stories, like leftovers, are the way they are regardless of the way we might have come to see it. I just wish everything works out in the end (but please let it be sometime this year), that he finds himself wide awake again, strong and brand new, raring to pick up the pieces instead of just crying over spilled milk.
And that goes for all of us. We do what we must do, so as not to drown in the traps that an imperfect life sets for us – staying hopeful, staying positive, staying prayerful, always.
That is a good way to live.