On the counter, we don't have many ingredients. The cutting board carries only a gorgeous dark-lavender onion. There's a can of tuna, a white packet of stir fry sauce, and a shaker sea-salt, and black pepper. A box of bow-tie pasta waits open.
Jorge looks every thing over and nods, "All ready now."
I pick up the knife. "Chop?"
"Yes," he thinks for a moment. "You do know how the cut the onion right?"
I scoff. "Of course I do, I've cooked before." The way I looked at it, food was food. You could cut a potato in a zillion different ways but a spud's always a spud. Jorge sighs as I hack into the beautiful vegetable and touches my wrist to stop me. He gently takes the knife from my hand and proceeds to artfully cut the onion into slender, similar perfectly sized pieces. I gap at him for a moment, and he simply smiles. Grabbing a bottle of olive oil from the cabinet, he whistles lightly and then, drizzles a bit into a large pan on the stove- There's already a pot of boiling water beside it. I cross my arms, feeling utterly useless. But, I enjoy watching Jorge move about the kitchen. He is graceful without effort and focused without stiffness. With a sharp knife, he opens the can of tuna and the kitchen walls throb lightly with the sound of steel parting tin. Without missing a beat, Jorge slides the perfectly chopped onions (along with my hacked ones)into the pan of olive oil.
Finally, he lifts sweet caramel-brown eyes to me. "Baby?" I melt a little. "Can you please toss the onions around?" He holds out a spoon. I take it, happy to be of some help. Jorge tosses the pasta into the pot of boiling water and I hum as the smell of browning onions rises up in hazy steam. I throw in a little salt, a little pepper. Jorge comes over and spills in the tuna and the stir-fry sauce. I can smell a hint of soy sauce, a smoky-sweet flavor I can't quite place, and a speck of garlic. I stir and my phone on the counter hollers. Glancing over, I see my cousin's name. Easily, I could text him back with a single hand...keep doing what I'm doing. But, then I catch Jorge's eye, he's right next to me, lifting up the steaming pot of pasta, he looks sweetly disheveled with his t-shirt slightly rumpled and his dark hair gleaming with drops of moisture from the heat. With one hand, I set my phone settings to silent. He drains the pasta and I move over to let him smoothly drop it into the mixture of onions, stir-fry sauce and tuna. A truly pleasant smell hits the kitchen and after adding two in a minute, we're feasting, eating at the counter. We look around the almost empty apartment and then, exchange smiles.
He starts speaking almost apologetically, "I know it's made from nothing but..."
I stop him as I swallow down a hot mouthful. "You have a knack for making amazing things out of nothing." The pasta is simple, but oh what flavors! There's a little sweetness, a little spiciness and the taste is crisp and warming-not one ingredient overpowers the others. Although, I make a note to take in a mint and a glass of water after as my glance falls on Jorge's full, red lips. Can't go around tasting even a little like tuna now...
Whenever we hang out at the apartment, pasta is almost always on the menu. And every time, Jorge makes it differently using whatever ingredients he finds laying around. I grew up on spaghetti and meatballs, always some sort of meat with the pasta...But, Jorge avoided consuming meat at all cost. He cooked in a way that demanded no meat, a way that asked for nothing but a marriage between simplicity and creativity. Swallowing down the last of my portion, I grope my pockets subtly for a mint and come up empty. Crap! Jorge takes my bowl and his and sets them in the sink. I cringe a little as he puts his arms around me. Immediately, he notices. "What's wrong?"
I bury my face in his chest and mumble something about mints. He chuckles and lifts my face to his. "Baby, I really don't care." My hormones leap for joy and hmm, I love Jorge's cooking but his kisses...well, it's a tough competition.
Full, we settle down on the carpet and start reading: "The Count of Monte Cristo" together. He has no problem imitating a captain's voice, and he teases me about my attempts to try and sound like a sailor. Before we know it, it's dark and as he drops me home he asks, "What kind of pasta do you want for next week?"
I think for a moment, but then, as always I say, "Surprise me." He grins and tips an imaginary hat to me. I wave him off and fall asleep recounting the smooth movements of his hand as he cooked. It wasn't easy for me to stay away from fast foods and the like, it always seemed easier and more appealing than slaving over a stove. But Tuesdays with Jorge were a way to enjoy the experience of the food-making process. I simply loved it! I found it so much better, so much more meaningful than scarfing down popcorn among a dark room full of strangers.
Jorge looks every thing over and nods, "All ready now."
I pick up the knife. "Chop?"
"Yes," he thinks for a moment. "You do know how the cut the onion right?"
I scoff. "Of course I do, I've cooked before." The way I looked at it, food was food. You could cut a potato in a zillion different ways but a spud's always a spud. Jorge sighs as I hack into the beautiful vegetable and touches my wrist to stop me. He gently takes the knife from my hand and proceeds to artfully cut the onion into slender, similar perfectly sized pieces. I gap at him for a moment, and he simply smiles. Grabbing a bottle of olive oil from the cabinet, he whistles lightly and then, drizzles a bit into a large pan on the stove- There's already a pot of boiling water beside it. I cross my arms, feeling utterly useless. But, I enjoy watching Jorge move about the kitchen. He is graceful without effort and focused without stiffness. With a sharp knife, he opens the can of tuna and the kitchen walls throb lightly with the sound of steel parting tin. Without missing a beat, Jorge slides the perfectly chopped onions (along with my hacked ones)into the pan of olive oil.
Finally, he lifts sweet caramel-brown eyes to me. "Baby?" I melt a little. "Can you please toss the onions around?" He holds out a spoon. I take it, happy to be of some help. Jorge tosses the pasta into the pot of boiling water and I hum as the smell of browning onions rises up in hazy steam. I throw in a little salt, a little pepper. Jorge comes over and spills in the tuna and the stir-fry sauce. I can smell a hint of soy sauce, a smoky-sweet flavor I can't quite place, and a speck of garlic. I stir and my phone on the counter hollers. Glancing over, I see my cousin's name. Easily, I could text him back with a single hand...keep doing what I'm doing. But, then I catch Jorge's eye, he's right next to me, lifting up the steaming pot of pasta, he looks sweetly disheveled with his t-shirt slightly rumpled and his dark hair gleaming with drops of moisture from the heat. With one hand, I set my phone settings to silent. He drains the pasta and I move over to let him smoothly drop it into the mixture of onions, stir-fry sauce and tuna. A truly pleasant smell hits the kitchen and after adding two in a minute, we're feasting, eating at the counter. We look around the almost empty apartment and then, exchange smiles.
He starts speaking almost apologetically, "I know it's made from nothing but..."
I stop him as I swallow down a hot mouthful. "You have a knack for making amazing things out of nothing." The pasta is simple, but oh what flavors! There's a little sweetness, a little spiciness and the taste is crisp and warming-not one ingredient overpowers the others. Although, I make a note to take in a mint and a glass of water after as my glance falls on Jorge's full, red lips. Can't go around tasting even a little like tuna now...
Whenever we hang out at the apartment, pasta is almost always on the menu. And every time, Jorge makes it differently using whatever ingredients he finds laying around. I grew up on spaghetti and meatballs, always some sort of meat with the pasta...But, Jorge avoided consuming meat at all cost. He cooked in a way that demanded no meat, a way that asked for nothing but a marriage between simplicity and creativity. Swallowing down the last of my portion, I grope my pockets subtly for a mint and come up empty. Crap! Jorge takes my bowl and his and sets them in the sink. I cringe a little as he puts his arms around me. Immediately, he notices. "What's wrong?"
I bury my face in his chest and mumble something about mints. He chuckles and lifts my face to his. "Baby, I really don't care." My hormones leap for joy and hmm, I love Jorge's cooking but his kisses...well, it's a tough competition.
Full, we settle down on the carpet and start reading: "The Count of Monte Cristo" together. He has no problem imitating a captain's voice, and he teases me about my attempts to try and sound like a sailor. Before we know it, it's dark and as he drops me home he asks, "What kind of pasta do you want for next week?"
I think for a moment, but then, as always I say, "Surprise me." He grins and tips an imaginary hat to me. I wave him off and fall asleep recounting the smooth movements of his hand as he cooked. It wasn't easy for me to stay away from fast foods and the like, it always seemed easier and more appealing than slaving over a stove. But Tuesdays with Jorge were a way to enjoy the experience of the food-making process. I simply loved it! I found it so much better, so much more meaningful than scarfing down popcorn among a dark room full of strangers.
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