telephoned Nicole and invited her to come to dinner at my apartment - better the familiar surroundings of my own abode. Her voice sounded enthusiastic when she accepted. We set the appointment for Sunday, my next available, unfettered evening.
Though I do not eat, my culinary expertise is not totally lacking. In fact, there has been many an occasion where I did prepare quite the sumptuous repast for friends, but never beef or pork; the aroma of cooked mammal flesh has always made me nauseous. Chicken, however, is not a problem. Thus, I would prepare Chicken Paprika, a dish from my homeland of plump chicken breasts cooked slowly in tomato juice and vinegar with onions and a great deal of paprika. When the chicken is almost entirely cooked, sour cream is added, creating a thick, rich sauce. Certainly, Nicole would relish such a dish, though I never could; the paprika pepper was not introduced toHungary until long after my desire for food had ceased.
While the chicken simmered, I inspected the apartment. A crisp, white tablecloth covered the small, folding table. The apartment was uncluttered and dust free. My futon was folded against the wall, forming a makeshift couch. My books were neatly arranged on their respective shelves. My record-albums were neat and orderly, organized in alphabetical order and divided into classical and jazz.
Satisfied, I cued upThe Magic Flute , sat on the futon and paged throughThe Wall Street Journal , absorbing myself in an analysis of the burgeoningPacific Rim markets. Soon, my apartment was thick with the aroma of cooked chicken and paprika, and hazy, lace-covered images superimposed themselves over my sight. A home of rocks, grass and mud. Two simple herders living together, working side by side to scratch out a meager existence that seemed neither meager nor simple. Just a young man and a young woman satisfied with their lot, satisfied with each other. Dinner would merely be a simple stew, with meat if available, served on earthen plates fired from clay dug from behind the house. The young man dug up more clay whenever plates broke, forming shapeless lumps into smooth flatware. The young woman lovingly filled the plates with stew created from whatever sustenance was available.
Visions of that life are fleeting, as easy to hold as quicksilver. So long ago, the memory is intact, but shrouded, coming clear only every so often as flashes, as snapshots, before fading, known, but not seen, except for that one image always available, ever haunting me.
Burning flesh washed away the lace curtains of recollection. The chicken was burning. I put away the newspaper and inspected the chicken. One side was slightly charred and required turning. Otherwise, the chicken was fine, cooked through and through, swimming in an ample amount of sauce. I lowered the flame slightly, then set a high flame under a saucepan full of water. Nicole was due shortly, so it was time to start boiling water for the noodles. A smaller saucepan held broccoli within a steel steamer suspended over water.
I opened a bottle ofBordeaux to allow enough time for this full-bodied red to breath. And yes, red wine with chicken was a bit unorthodox, but a faint-hearted white would find itself overpowered by the paprika; theBordeaux would blend nicely with the spice and tomato sauce.
And yes, I did not actually have any pots, pans, dishes or silverware, but stocking my kitchen was easily accomplished with a quick excursion to the St. Vincent DePaul second-hand store.
I splashed some wine over the chicken, then returned to my newspaper to await Nicole's arrival, which would signal time to commence steaming the broccoli and adding sour cream to the chicken.
Shortly, there was a knock on the door. According to the clock on the nightstand next to my futon, Nicole was exactly thirteen minutes late. When I opened the door, she stood before me, a vision of loveliness, holding a single red rose, garnished with a few sprigs of baby's breath.
"I couldn't come empty-handed," she said, handing me the flower. "Usually, I'd bring a bottle of wine, but you said you'd already taken care of that."
She looked lovely, dressed in jeans and a simple cotton peasant-blouse that showed off her curves nicely. Her long, black hair was pulled away from her face on one side, held in place by a barrette that also held a small sprig of baby's breath. "Yes, if I were to tell you what kind of wine to bring, that would spoil the surprise I have cooked up