Stars

Yesterday I decided to attempt a casserole that I've been contemplating for a couple of weeks now, since the days leading to my dinner party. The recipe calls for simple kitchen construction: chicken, diced tomatoes and green chiles, a couple of cream of soups, onions, green bell peppers, plus it's a casserole (the mere word my friend AB and I have decided taints the pleasure of what a casserole is - neither of us is comfortable calling it that) which constitutes some time in the oven and clears room in the schedule for cleaning the dishes before dinner is served. Am I sounding willfully domesticated yet? I suppose I never predicted I would be this emotionally attached to a room in the house (apartment) which contains so many chores. But I also, as I've explained before, am plugging some unfilled holes with cooking, voids where such activities as writing poems and staring dreamily out the window used to be. And domesticated or not, I am really taking great pleasure in it. So last night, I was standing at the counter chopping an onion. My eyes were brimming, the onion was that potent, and Craig, who sat on the couch with his feet planted firmly in our area rug, one sock kind of bunched on his foot, eyes averted to the television screen where college baseball video game playing was happening, declared wisely, You really need to start that food journal, KB. I like this image of Craig because it was really quite endearing, the way he sat poised across from the television like a little boy, video game controller tucked into his hands, momentarily eradicating the fact that he's a grown man with responsibilities. These fleeting instances are like the kind of moments an old friend recently tried to explain to me about his new baby, the cute ones only we get to see (in this case, I get to see them in my boyfriend, not in an infant). Anyway, Craig wasn't being pushy about the food journal - as I mentioned, he's supportive and I appreciate his efforts. So after I wiped my eyes dry of onion tears, I went and searched a box containing old journals and notebooks, and sure enough, I had one blank book just waiting to be filled with helpful food entries. While the dinner baked in the oven, I began my first entry into what will hopefully become a powerful kitchen tool for us down the road. I indicated which ingredients I needed to pick up at the grocery. I estimated a monetary value on the meal: affordable. I mentioned the minimal amount of clean-up required, and a reminder to myself that I need to perfect the art of layering (I'm not a lasagna aficionado so when I reached layers numbered 3, I realized I hadn't saved enough content to spread as its own layer. Craig advised that it does take a little practice and he's our resident lasagna expert so I trust his judgement). I'm genuinely looking forward to keeping a little notebook by the kitchen that acts as a reminder of things I've learned and experienced. Anyway, after eating the above described casserole, the final stage was to be the rating. Now, as many of Craig's adoring fans, friends and family members know about him, he is no laid back food critic. In fact, I'd say that the following statement serves duly as a metaphor for Craig's life: Little, if anything earns 5-stars. He is, undeniably so, a difficult person to please. I don't mean to express this as a bad thing: simply put, his expectations are high. So as I finished scrubbing the pyrex dish in the soapy water and while he settled back into the couch for another round of college baseball video game, I asked him kindly could he rate our dinner for the food journal? He glanced over at me and tilted his head to a side in thought, then announced, 3-stars. 3? I asked incredulously. 3? (This was after he had helped himself to seconds and moments later even contemplated thirds, which I did note in the food journal.) Maybe 3 1/2, he compromised, turning back to the video game. This spread a huge smile right through my insides, as frustrating as it might seem to a casual observer. I love (only now - it wasn't always this easy for me) how brutally honest he is with me. I love that he doesn't hide anything. I love that he doesn't dole out 5-stars to just anything, any film, any entree. It only enhances the keen sense of who he is. And what is further entertaining to note is that I am his polar opposite when it comes to my ratings: I love everything. I will immediately claim something to be my favorite, or the best ever. Somehow, miraculously, we balance each other out. Somehow it just works.