Serving Up Love At My Table

Eggplant stuffed with crabmeat from the wonderful gourmet cookbook by Vincent and Mary Price. Yes, that Vincent Price.  It's a great cookbook.  A terrific recipe.  And my new husband adored it when I cooked it for him.  He also loved my Swedish meatballs and my lasagna.  And I loved cooking for him.  Despite the fact that I joked to friends that the thing I made most often for dinner was reservations, I cooked a good deal when I was first married.  And his birthday was a special time.  He loves pecan pie, and I'd bake one just for him.  

I haven't done that for a while.  He didn't seem to notice, because his mind was focused on the contents of a bottle.  But it grieved me not to do something special.  I just lost heart. 

My mother loves to cook for us when we visit, because it is her nature to nurture, to feed those she treasures something that they truly enjoy.  She has other skills, too.  Artistic skill with fabric as well as paint.  I possess none of that.  But I can cook.  And I like the satisfaction of presenting a meal well prepared, pleasuring my people.  It's how I was raised, and it's in my genes, I think.  I come from at least two generations of gracious hostesses and darned good cooks.  Loving, capable women who serve tasty food.

I realized the other day that I've transferred my desire to another man.  I knew it on one level, of course.  The lustful way I feel about him over my husband is actually a bit worrisome, because there's no guarantee we'll actually ever share a bed.  But the desire I have to feed the fellow is real cause for concern, because I don't know that we'll ever share a table, either.

My friend the politico was clear: he said I needed to spend at least a year on my own before setting up a household with someone new.  I get that it makes sense, it's conventional wisdom, and a year goes by faster than we think.  But goddammit it to hell, I am so ready to be with someone else.  I have a specific candidate in mind, you know.  And that is what makes it that much harder. 

I spent the day online after I met my friend the politico for breakfast, hesitant to go out for a moment in case GV showed up.  I knew in my heart the odds were slim, despite his stated hope that he could slip home and cam for me.  Things are wacky at work, and he is a busy man.  Still, I hoped.  I do so love seeing his face and hearing his voice.  And his naked body is a thing of beauty to behold.  I have long dreamt of exploring it at great length, to continue the tentative touching we began in April and make it far more sure-handed.

When I'd been with my friend the politico, he'd asked if my marriage was irreparably broken.  "If you brought him along sexually, could you be satisfied?" he asked.  "Especially since you have the hall pass?" 

"I don't think so, darling," I'd replied.  "I don't even want to cook for him.  I want to cook for another man."  My friend nodded sagely.

"Just don't rush into anything with the other guy," he'd said.  "Keep exploring to learn what makes you happy first.  Use the hall pass.  You've never had the normal chance most of us did when we were teenagers and twenty-somethings." 

"I am not going to **** around with a million guys," I countered.  "I've stayed disease-free for almost fifty years.  I don't want to screw it up now."  He looked at me.

"Just give yourself some time," he said.

"Right," I promised.

So tonight, when I was online and GV came online, and we began to chat, I'd hoped he had an empty empty house.  You know...the sort where a man can cam for strange women without worrying about his wife walking in and ruining the tender moment.  Instead, I learned that he and the missus were headed out for a bite to eat.  And I was seized with an unreasoning jealousy.  I don't want him to have dinner with his wife.  I want him to eat with me.  I want to cook for him.  I want to make him my lasagna and make him my love slave.  Surely one would follow the other as night follows day, right?

Yet my fine cooking did not assure my husband's fidelity, nor his sobriety.  It is not magical.  I have no secret ingredients to bind a man to me, winning his heart through his stomach.  It is merely that I derive pleasure from creating culinary delights and feeding my people.  It is one domestic art in which I have at least a modicum of talent, and a heck of a lot of contentment.  Combining sauce, cheeses, herbs and noodles into baking dishes, serving hot aromatic squares of scrumptiousness to those dearest to her..surely this is what a woman was meant to do with her life.

For now, I will make meals for the three who share my home.  My husband and two children.  I do love them all.  Just not the way I feel for GV.  Perhaps it's because he's promised to bend me over the table to take me, "dining room chairs pushed hurriedly aside to create access to the table’s edge."  That's pretty compelling stuff.  If I have the chance to serve him at the table - either with my lasagna or my body or both - I will do so.  It's prudent to spend at least a year on my own after I leave my husband, but there's nothing that says I can't have a dear friend over to share a meal.
milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
Sep 14, 2012