My lunch, still lingering on my tongue, was the solitary leftover serving of the Lamb and Lentil Stew that V made last night. I could tell you in aching detail about the earthiness of the flavors, the slight tooth to the lentils that kept it from being soggy, the richness of the roasted cumin, but I'd rather simply say that it was just the perfect thing for lunch on a grey and wintry afternoon. I wrapped my hands around the bowl and watched the steam rising off of it drift in front of my window. It was warm and filling and V was absolutely right, it was even better the second day.
Yesterday it also served as a final meal in the United States for MCB's former coworker, Red. She's off to Thailand and points unknown for the foreseeable future, having an adventure while the economy rights itself. V didn't know he'd be cooking for Red when I asked (alright, told) him to cook, but I'm glad he did and I hope that he is too. I would have cooked for her - your last meal before an adventure should be something cooked at home - but I didn't have that lentil stew in my repetoire, and it was just right. It was warm, simple and delicious, and she said on her way to the airport this morning that she would remember it well.
Recently, on his very own blog, V talked briefly about last meals. I meant to make my own post at the time, but it got away from me until today. Sitting here and eating the last bowl of Red's last meal (of a different sort) I thought again about how I would conduct my final meal before my death.
I'd have the last meal of my life in the capacious central room of my grandparent's summer home, around that beautiful thick-legged old table that is scarred and unpretentious, but comes from a time when people cared something for the craft of carpentry. If I could choose it would be late summer, and all the windows and doors would be open. The gas lamps that used to light the place in my childhood would, if I could wave a magic wand, return for one night, to light this meal.
I would have my family there, my beloved MCB, my very dear ex-husband, and a few friends who would understand a meal like this. We would begin early and let the courses go slowly into the night, as we progressed I would move around the table, to talk with a different person through each dish.
I do not think I could draft a menu for this, in the end I might turn that duty over to someone else because the choices would simply be too hard. I know that I would want simple things; rich, briny olives; sharp, pungeant cheeses; sweet summer fruits and bright fresh vegetables. I know that I would cook some part of the meal, possibly the dessert.
Eating that stew today it occurred to me, the thing I'd like best would be dishes prepared by the cooks who joined me at that table. I tried to find the words for what that would mean to me, but like V, I simply am not ready.
Comments