A year ago: a food diary

It's been a year since I went on a limb and asked a good-looking, funny guy out in a haiku. And although I know he's hoping I'm going to do a big, mushy "Oh snufflewufflekins, how I love you so" post (despite his insistence that he would never want it), I just can't seem to put to words how great it is. I've finally found that one that, no matter how bad the day is going, I find myself smiling like an idiot when I see his name come up on my caller ID.

Therefore, I'm going to let the meal from that evening speak for me...

Our sparkling

Fried green tomatoes

Pork belly ravioli

Diver's scallops

Cod with a little lobster

Plantain gnocci with black beans

Strawberry shortcake with rubarb

Meyer lemon beignets with tequila ice-cream

An end and a goodbye

March, as a whole, has sucked. The weather has played yo-yo with my feelings, I've seen a few of my friends be let go from the jobs they love due to "a new corporate direction", other friends suddenly ended happy relationships, and my own job took another step past indentured servitude and toward slavery. On top of this, Evie is moving back home to the West Coast. Kelly has been in sour spirits ever since she made her decision and I'm not exactly thrilled to be letting a new friend move so far away. We both know we're being selfish, but still...not the best way to end an already crappy month.

This blog was initially inspired after the "Bone Marrow Incident", but another factor that pushed me into start writing this was Evie and her Chinatown trips. I have eaten in Chinatown before, but I could have never prepared for the spectacle that is a Chinatown night. Gathered in a restaurant that I have passed but never eaten in before now, we gather in one of the larger tables tucked away in the corner. Our waitress (a woman that has been involved in these events well before I ever met Kel) already knows what to expect. She piles wine glasses, water glasses (extras for my camel boyfriend), and already knows we'll be getting the usual fish-fries and pea-pod stems, as well as an aquarium in butter and garlic. Each person drinks (at least) two bottles of wine and fills themselves with enough fish that they start to produce omega-3 on their own. The next day, I am pickled and saying things like "I had oyster three different ways" or "it's the whole silver fish, eyeballs and all", and my co-workers wonder how I am still standing.

As was only appropriate, we all gathered again to send Evie off with another Chinatown trip. Getting there early, Kelly and I meet with one of her friends and start prepping the table with our waitress. Like professionals, we arrange the table and start planning for the main event. This time, however, we have a set item that must be featured: king crab. As in Deadliest Catch, the Goliath beetle of the sea, big enough to completely cover my face and wrap its legs completely around my head sort of king crab. For large parties, the restaurant cooks it three ways and Evie has set her sights on enjoying one before she leaves.

We order the usual items and wait as everyone starts trickling in. Wine is clustered on the lazy-susan and we pour a little bit of bubbles to get things started. And then they bring him out. Carried in a spare tray used to bus tables, he thumps and scrambles to stand but can't get his feet to steady on the slick plastic. His carapace is thorny and deep burnt umber. His mandibles twitch nervously and he falls with another thump as he fails to stand. Kelly instantly names him Lloyd and we try to figure out how to cook him. Lloyd, with his constant attempts to escape, knows his fate.

Like tourists, we get Evie to lift him out of the tub and take part in a photo shoot. She smiles wide and hooks her fingers under his back legs. His front legs twitch and shift to get free, to fall to the floor so he can scuttle away, but Evie keeps her fingers tightly wrapped and far away from his pincers. She twists and faces each photographer's smartphone, laughing at one crude joke or the next, and gently hovers Lloyd over the tub to keep him from dripping salt water over the carpet. Lloyd finally makes peace with his crabby god by the last photo, pulling his legs tight to his body. We give him back and start on glass four or five.

In what seems like moments, Lloyd's legs come out of the kitchen. Deep fried with ginger and garlic, we peel back the now coral-colored shell and suck out the soft white meat. I have clearly never had real crab before as the flesh is soft and flaky. Like a barbarian, I take his horny legs in my fingers and pry back his former armor with sharp snaps, like someone cracking their knuckles, and smear the buttery mess along my cheek in haste to get through my portion of legs.

By the time the pea-pod stems and fish-fries come and we have started platting those, Llyod's body is put on the small space on the table not occupied with wine bottles. Steamed and a little tougher, much like the slightly rubbery meat of lobster tails, the body is sprinkled with scallions that give just a little sharpness. Speeches are made, more wine is poured, and it's almost like Evie is just having us all get together for another night of drinking and feasting.

By the time the last of Lloyd comes out of the kitchen, we are all starting to get a little nostalgic and emotional. His shell is flipped upside-down and filled with scrambled eggs and what I believe are brains or crab eggs. I pour myself a glass of the bubbly rose and tap Kelly's knee with mine. "She's my Boston family," he says and I nod, trying to be supportive. Having watched most of my friends go off to other parts of the country, I understand what he's feeling. We finish licking the juices off of our plates and finishing the almost empty bottles. Kelly gives Evie a quick goodbye, knowing we will be seeing her at least one more time, but is a little quiet as we ride home on the T. I try to let him be, but keep his hand in mine. After all, I know how much this month has sucked.

Amarone della Valpolicella

Collin is a little nervous. He paces back and forth in front of the room, playing with his glass of Amarone. He sips it. Swishes it. Puts the glass down. Picks the glass up. Takes another sip. Pours a little more into glass. He makes a point to look at the other two groups, but I'm sure Kelly's laser focus and scrutiny make him keep his eyes from glancing our way. My heart goes out to him. As sweet as he can be, Kelly tends to correct every misspoken word and incorrect fact in a nervous habit that could be intimidating to those that haven't gotten used to him--or are performing for a room full of people.

Collin goes over the history of the wine we'll be sampling. Having selected various producers and versions of a singular wine, it is the first one I have been to where I am not trying to figure out which is the grape, which is the region, and which is the man pouring it for me.

Amarone is a drier red that typically comes from the Valpolicella region of Italy. The grapes (primarily Corvina [think 5/6] with various percentages of Rodinella or Molinara) are dried on mats to intensify the flavor. The wines are set up in a neat row of two with a larger glass at the end. The colors are saturated in shades of freshly spilled blood, throwing red halos onto the paper tablecloths under the overhead lights. The waiters provide a list of the night's vintages.

2008 Villa Erbice ca'Panvino, DOC Valpolicella
A peppery red, the wine has a lot of the classic notes that I would expect: figs, black pepper, plums, a little tobacco.

2007 Michele Castellani "San Michele," DOC Ripasso Valpolicella Classico Superiore
Collin explains that they save the pomice from the Amarone and add it to a batch of other Valpolicella wine. The extra food for the yeast boosts the body and the alcohol content (the other Amarones are already at least 14% alcohol...)

2003 Nicoli, DOC Amarone della Velpolicella Classico
I clearly taste twizzlers and mention it to Kel. I'm excited by my finding, however, he doesn't seem to notice "That's because..." he starts, speaking quickly in his teacher voice. "Rubber...black and red fruit..." He catches himself, smiles, and nods. "Yes dear. It does taste like twizzlers."

2005 Villa Erbice "Tremenel," DOC Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
The younger brother of the 2001, the 2005 drinks much smoother and is generally the better-liked among the people tasting.

2001 Villa Erbice "Tremenel," DOC Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
Despite Collin decanting the bottle hours before, the tannins are extra sharp and the wine doesn't have the smoothness of the 2005. He explains the complications of the weather, the growing season in the region, and the factors that could account for the unintended taste, but too many of us are novices to understand the full implications.

The tasting ends a little faster than I expected, but it is all timed with precision. The chef arrives with a cart, ready to show us how to make gnocchi. Collin steps aside, pouring a glass of the 2005 for him. Relaxing now that he is out of the spotlight, he grabs a chair near us and becomes part of the crowd.

Guess who!

Everyone is milling about the very warm room. In a hurried precision, the glasses are laid out (water, four white, four red) and the table split down the middle. Everyone's divided eight to eight. The grids are passed out. People check their contributions to the tasting, making sure that nothing is corked. I step back, crossing the leopard-print carpet, and let myself fall into a wing back chair near the fireplace. This is my second Boston Sommelier Society tasting and I know my place. Kelly's invited me to taste before, but I prefer the Dian Fossey approach. I wouldn't be able to answer half of the grid.

The mood is very similar to the art history classes I took in college. Sitting in the Multi-media Room, we would file in to find our preferred seats and watch as the professor showed slide after slide. We would stare at the brushstrokes, the medium, the style, and yell things out like "Expressionist!" "16th Century Italian!" "Monet!" "No you idiot, it's Manet!" As a class, we would agonize over the country of origin and artist, the time it was made, the medium, and name of the piece knowing each one was needed to get the answer right.

Here, tucked away in the function room of an upscale restaurant, the BSS plays a hectic game of musical chairs--filling each of the four white glasses with a different bottle. "Number one is on the left!" Steve calls out, trying to keep some resemblance of order in the confined chaos. He offers a friendly smile, quick to notice the notes I'm scribbling "Be kind," he asks. The BSS return to their original seats. They swirl and sniff the glasses, talking quickly about their preliminary findings before the actual test starts. The leaders of each group try to give instructions over the cacophony. "I just need to remember two fruits." "Some of us will be tasting and others will keep notes." "Where are all the sheets?" There is a soft lull and then the tasting starts, bringing back the passion I remember from Western Europe and New World Art History 101/102. "Primary color is golden with platinum highlights." "...Peach, Asian pear...there's some earth, white flowers, and orange blossom." "...Lightly spiced like cinnamon, ginger, maybe a little tarragon..." "Low tannins." "Acidity...pretty acidic, I guess." "Pears...yes, definitely pears." "I would say Old World Wine." "Could be a Riesling...Germany, Alsace..." "It's about 30 years old." "Alcohol and acidity is high, we can all agree on that." "I disagree. I think it's more New World--maybe the Orient."

I finish scribbling my notes and turn to other writing projects, trying to figure out the plot line for my current story. And yet, in the back of my head, I'm still siting in the Multi-media Room trying to decide if the Expressionist painting in front of me is French or Italian.

How I learned to love the red wattle

There is a white paper bag bleeding out along my counter top, a thin red trickle blushing the corner. The pig meat it was once holding is safely squirreled away in the fridge. I sweat white wine and a thinner, richer musk of bacon fat as I look through my fridge for a vegetarian option for lunch. My legs are tense and I feel like I've been salted, brined, and fried. But it is all worth it (as many days when I wake up to find my head in pieces on the floor) to have experienced the night before and the event...Cochon555 at the Fairmont.

On our first date, on our way to get a few sushi rolls, Kelly told me that he had double-booked in case the night went sour and he needed a pick-me-up. Ever since, all I have heard about for the past ten months has been Cochon, Cochon, Cochon. When it came back to Boston, I made sure to go if only to see how I stacked up against this pork phenomenon. Their mission statement from their web page sort of says it all: "Cochon 555 is a one-of-a-kind traveling culinary competition and tasting event--five chefs, five pigs, five wine makers--to promote sustainable farming of heritage breed pigs." Well, I may not have five chefs, wine makers, or pigs, but I can bend myself in half and talk dirty in Spanish (What you got now, Cochon?!)...

For weeks before the event, I visited their website. I studied the breeds of heritage pigs, which in itself is a little creepy and fascinating when you realize that you're reading about how something has been breed purely for flavor or the marbling of the muscle. I memorized a few names and tried to remember a few facts of each pig so that I would at least sound somewhat intelligent when asked which was better, the Large Black or Duroc. But once I stepped inside the hotel, it was forced out by the smell of bacon and the overwhelming stimulus from baroque architecture.

At the VIP event beforehand, we bonded with a representative from Yelp! and the sister of a caviar producer and her husband. (These would be the people I spent the evening with while Kelly was sequestered as a judge.) We took turns guarding the tiny, tall table and our wine glasses as one or two people went off for cheese, wine, or St. Germaine cocktails. Our holding pattern worked so well that after they showed a promotional video and opened the doors, we continued to work together to guard the limited space set aside.

As is, I only managed to get to three chefs' tables and the Elk Cove Vineyard table as the deluge of people flooded the function hall of the Fairmont. Although two hours seems like plenty of time to get to every chef, wine maker, and pig, no one seemed to take into consideration that people really like their pig...Regardless, the few people I got to were well worth the wait.

Duroc/Yorkshire
There is little information on this cross-breed of pig. All I could learn was that the Duroc is a large, aggressive red boar; the Yorkshire is a pale white and known for its lean meat; and both are a perfect pig to cross-breed.

The first table I spotted had a small line already started, so I threw myself in knowing that I'd get the long table out of the way (so much for that). The plate is arranged like a clock face, with a small snack at 12, 2, 4, 8, and 10:

• The croquette had a nice crunch and a good bite from a spicy red sauce.
• The caviar-maker's sister all but swallowed her waffle whole and purred that I had to try it next. Slathered with a thin sauce and a slab of pork, the waffle added a nice bit of substance as the pork all but melted with each bite.
• Next came a pig's ear (at least I thought it was) with pop rocks. Although a strange combo, it was far from the strangest and added a nice, lighter dimension.
• The least favorite dish was the blood sausage on a bed of beans. Although the white beans were creamy and added a nice contrast, the blood sausage was too dense and its spice was too much of a contrast to the beans.
• The dessert, however, made up for the poorer sausage. A rich chocolate cookie, the filling was made from bacon fat. Decadent and filling, it went very well with the reds being served. The caviar-maker's sister made sure to go back and pocket several more in her purse for later.

Large Black
Originally a Chinese breed, the Large Black is a rarer breed known for its taste and hardiness. The smaller marbling and shorter fibers of the meat make this breed the perfect choice for bacon. The team (headed by a chef named Mary) also wore "Mary had a Large Black" t-shirts that I coveted greatly...

I got the table for the Large Black after sampling the wines at Elk Cove. Mulling over my glass, I watched as the sous chefs platted two dishes. The pulled pork rillette (Lunch) was served in mason jars topped with pickles and coarse-grain mustard, and served with hard crostini. I ate as much of the jar as possible, treating the dish almost like a high-brow pork dip and fishing the pink bits out with the edges of the bread. The slow-cooked pork loin and kimchi pickles on a grilled pita (Dinner) was almost like a White-people pork bun. But, as the first table, the best dish was the dessert. Ethereal and surprising, the cotton candy looked innocent until I bit into it. Acting as the basis, a thick strip of bacon added a needed salty taste to the sweeter spun sugar that my co-workers still will not believe in (despite my photographic evidence...it's not Bigfoot people!)

Red Wattle
Named for its red color and unfortunate jowls (think octogenarian chicken), this breed has lean and juicy meat that has a beef-like taste and texture.

This was the table that ate up all my time. Waiting in line (for half-an-hour), I sucked down the last of my wine and gratefully took a slice of the pork hock and drunken pineapple pizza. Familiar and close to the one that Kelly and I order all the time (pineapples, bacon, and jalapenos), the drunken fruit is almost flammable and hurts to eat. At the table, I find that most of the seven dishes are already gone. I take a ladel of the chestnut flour pappardelle with pig's head and celery heart ragu, while the chef carves. She plates the porchetta with dried peach and pistachio and cuts a wedge of lard and lemon pastry to go with it. I spot her doughnuts in their warmers and fish one out with my fork. At this point, I have eaten at least one entire pig by myself. I fork as much of the ragu as I can, but it's not as appetizing as it would have been hours ago. Likewise, I can't bring myself to eat more than half of the porchetta and lard/lemon pastry. The doughnut, however, is airy and delicious. It tastes like summer and doesn't sit as heavy as the other pastry. It's only later that I find out it is a pig's feet and Mexican spiced margarita doughnut with salt and lime juice.

Kelly finds me leaning against the table, trying to find room for the chicharron and dark chocolate dip that is making it's way around the floor. He smiles wide and puts down a plate of porcelet de lait (milk-fed piggy veal). At this point, I am drunk, filled with so much pig I have grown hooves, and exhausted for being on them for hours. I nibble half-heartedly at the porcelet and watch as they name the winning chef (the Duroc/Yorkshire). We all clap and I am grateful when the waiter comes to take our mostly empty plate away, saving me from myself.

Following the river of people out of the hotel, we join up with more of Kelly's friends and brave the winter towards the after party (where I don't even think of eating anything ever again). Flushed with the cold, we order a few more drinks and try to digest. Kelly sits across from me and everyone is drunk on pig and alcohol. I sink further into my chair, fully aware now what I am worth in pork.

"Hello, my name is Mark and I am a wine snob..."

Or, The harmful effects of the Boston Wine Expo

I have come to a dangerous conclusion of my character. After yet another stressful day at work, I shrugged off my coat, left my shoes at the door still clinging onto one sock in desperation, and pour a glass of Merlot. I take a sip, swallow, and stare at the bottle in despair. The last of my stash from the holidays, it was a gift from my boss and has a crow on the label. And my praise stops there. I take another sip in hopes that it was a fluke--a bad sip--but the second one tastes the same. I used to be able to drink anything short of vinegar as long as it was made from grapes. I pour the glass out into the sink and look at my corked bottle as the realization sets in. I have finally become a wine snob.

Clearly the blame can be placed at Kelly's feet. The day of the Boston Wine Expo, he wakes me up extra early so that we can shower, dress, and grab a quick bite to eat before the unwashed masses take over the convention center. The massive blue room is broken down into grids, squares of tables arranged by country, wine produced, items sold, food. I snap my plastic badge onto by belt loop. "GUEST OF Kelly..." it screams above a bright orange bar proudly announcing "TRADE VIP" with its chest puffed out and fists on hips. "Oh great, now people are going to want to talk to me," Kelly says as he looks at his own badge with his restaurant under his name. His face says he's miffed, but I don't believe it. The man behind us mentions that we shouldn't miss the Barefoot table, and Kelly snorts. "Don't worry, we will," he says.

We grab our glasses and Kelly darts off as if he is trying to lose me. He pauses at the tables to see what's there, but darts as soon as it's clear he won't drink anything. We start with Prosecco and a sweeter white before dashing off to try some hearty reds. Cards are exchanged at every table we stop at for more than two glasses. Kelly cherry-picks vintages and varietals and shakes hands. I swallow a few of the whites, but spend the rest of the morning trying to master the spit bucket. Leaning over, I feel as if I just finished brushing my teeth and it looks like I cut a gum. Holding the bucket up closer has the dangerous risk of splash-back if the bucket is full, with one attempt ending in frantic scrubbing of my face with water and a napkin from the cheese table. It's only after our 20th table that I find the perfect height to hold the bucket (chest level) and the velocity to spit (just enough force to jet the wine like I'm a drunken fountain loose from my pedestal).

Running to the back, Kelly gasps at the square of tables tucked away forgotten before the seminar rooms. "Ooh, Greek wine," he says. The woman behind the table gets Kel's card and spends our time at her booth chasing him from bottle to bottle. "We would love to interview you for local carriers that feature our wines," she says with a whisper of desperation behind her earnest smile. Kelly promises to take her call and we sip the first, a Santorini. Sharp and clear, it tastes like nothing I have ever had before. I swallow it wishing I could get a second glass without seeming greedy. The people behind the table present each wine with a story--grape vines grown into basket shapes to protect the delicate fruit, clay slopes the color of brick that must be snacked on by the people visiting for the first time. Each wine from the first to the ending samples of Samos are perfect and make everything else seem lesser in comparison. Oh sure, the Georgia [the country, not the state] table was very good, but nothing else felt on par with the Greek wine. "You should blog about this and call it 'It's all Greek to me'!" Kelly says.

We pause for a seminar featuring most of Kelly's friends. But after an intelligent discussion (with one yahoo dominating a small part of it), I feel the morning catching up with me. My mouth gets dry from the many tastings and spittings. My gums are woolly and my teeth feel a little filmy. I grab a glass of water to rinse and continue on to the Grand Cru lounge, which has fewer wines at a higher price that don't speak to me at all (the best item there was the wine cookies that were designed to cleanse the pallet between tastings). By the end, I am tired, drained, and educated.

I plug the bottle of red in my kitchen and hope that it can be saved to cook with, but I have a feeling it won't. As they always say, you should cook with what you like to drink...and I apparently like to drink something of substance.

Meat Christmas

Kelly is excited the moment I pick him up from work. He steels himself, though, and falls in beside me. Walking to the car, we exchange sideways glances and I pull my scarf further up to hide my face, trying to look nonchalant. "You got the stuff?" he asks. I nod and motion him towards the car. "It's in the trunk," I say. He gets in and we drive back to his place, fully aware of the items hidden in their bags. I pull into a spot away from prying eyes and pops the trunk. He gets the items out and hugs them to his chest. We're silent all the way upstairs to the safety of his apartment. "Alright," he says as soon as the door is shut and locked behind him, "let's see what we got."

This is my first CSA. Before Kelly, the only CSA I knew was the Community Service Advisor in college. That morning, I drove all the local middle school and approached the unmarked, white van. I gave Kelly's name and got a plastic bag in return. Knowing it would be five pounds, I was a little disappointed that it didn't strain a single muscle (there's something about the word "pounds" that lends a sense of gravity and mass--a bit of oomph that would cause some effort instead of swinging it at my side as I walked back to the car). As I promised, I waited for Kelly to get out before we unwrapped our meat Christmas, eager to see what CSA Santa brought us.

Kelly digs into the bag, eager to see what we got. He oohs and ahhs at the pork chops thin enough to be prosciutto, a lump of chicken breast the size of my fist, and a unknown hunk of beef that Kel has already designated for braising and smothering. He tosses me the chicken breasts and I put them down on the table, eager to decide what to do...my limited cookbook flipping its pages through my mind.

The noodle incident

"There you guys are," Cordelia says with a grateful sigh. "They've been giving me dirty looks. 'Who's this bitch think she is taking up a four-top...'" The dumpling place smells of the usual Chinese spices, the air thick and soupy with white pepper and sesame seed. Flushed with a few hours exploring the MFA and the train ride over to Chinatown, I sit down across from her after the usual greeting of kisses on each cheek. "This place is supposed to be phenomenal," she gushes.

The menu is expected...noodles; soups; sections for beef, chicken, and seafood. But we're not here for any of those. Looking at the Dumpling section, I breeze through the short list but Cordelia's already chosen. The last two items are not the dumplings I have grown used to. Encased in the slightly sticky skin, the dumplings are filled with a cousin to pork soup. "It's the latest thing that's really big in New York," Cordelia says after she orders them. The waitress smiles and brings us refills of ice water. In only a few moments, she returns with the bamboo steamer. Cordelia pops it open with a gentle hand and fishes out a dumpling with the provided tongs. Her eagerness punctures the side of one, bleeding the pork soup out onto her plate. "Oh no! That's the best part," Kelly says with some consolation. She quickly fishes it onto her flat spoon. Using the care of a surgeon, Kelly and I fish ours out by gripping the purses' thicker tops in the tongs.

The dumplings are hot and sharp. The pork perfectly done and the soup a viscous orange that tastes just as it looks. Savoring the first one, we each devour our second with less care. Popping hers into her mouth, Cordelia's face switches back and forth from wide-eyed pain of the hot soup to delight with the taste. As the waitress returns, we make a decision that sets into motion "the Noodle Incident" [insert dramatic music here].

Cordelia orders the other soupy dumplings as Kelly and I peruse the rest of the menu for something else to go along with it. Kelly asks for another water glass and Cordelia and I decide on noodles with pan-seared pork and mustard greens. "Not the soup one," she says to the waitress, pointing to the menu with emphasis. The waitress smiles and we go back to our conversation, unaware that Pandora's box had been opened.

The waitress returns to fill our glasses and gives Kelly a second, empty glass. She looks concerned and hands it over with as much gusto as she could while imagining what this strange man wants with an empty drinking glass. "No, I wanted it filled..." Kelly says, but she is already gone to another table, and his request fades with her. And then the noodles arrive. They smell strong and we each grab a portion onto our plates. "They taste super snotty," Kelly warns and manages to suck down the bundle twisted around his chopsticks. I manage to get a little of the pork and greens with mine and shovel it quickly into my mouth to keep it from dropping onto my lap. The noodles are strings of mucus so soft that they break apart with the barest touch of my tongue. The pork is boiled and tough, while the greens are limp and soggy (and all of it is somehow flavorless despite the scent of spice).

"I think they just drained the soup and plated it," Cordelia whispers. Kelly and I nod in agreement and we all put the remainder back on our plate. As nicely as possible (and after a few minutes of agonizing), she calls the waitress back over and apologizes, but tells her that the noodles aren't what we ordered. The waitress, who understood us perfectly before, suddenly transforms into a woman fresh from Beijing with the barest grasp of English. With each rephrasing into the baser parts of the conversation, Cordelia's gentleness fades until she is all but yelling "We don't want these!" and gesturing at the plate of noodles with both hands. "So sorry," the waitress says in broken English and takes the plate away to the general manager. A slightly older woman with a no-nonsense haircut, the GM comes to our table. "You not like?" she asks. "Sorry, but it's not what we ordered," Cordelia says, bringing some of her original charm and care back into her voice. The GM nods with understanding and then is replaced by a waitress that is not ours. "You not like?" she asks harshly. We all shake our heads and watch as yet another waitress comes to our table. Lather, rinse, and repeat a few more times. Cordelia emphasizes it was not what we ordered as Kelly and I cover our mouths with our drinking glasses, sucking down water and then devouring the ice...anything to keep us from talking and taking the attention away from our unintentional sacrificial lamb.

As the GM returns, Cordelia sighs. "We'll just get our order of dumplings, please," she says. She asks for the other kind that we have not had and the waitress brings over the same steamer of dumplings as before. "Let's just eat them and go," I say and Kelly nods. We suck the dumplings down, scalding our tongues and blistering the roofs of our respective mouths. Kelly and I pull out cash to pay, but our waitress has disappeared. Awkwardly, we wait as every eye of the serving staff, kitchen, and front of the house watches us to see what unreasonable request we would make next. In what seems like a lifetime, our waitress returns and we pay her as quickly as possible. Returning with Cordelia's card, she brings a plate of orange slices that Kelly and I ignore and shrug on our coats as quick as we could. Cordelia pops one in her mouth, sucks off the fruit, and joins us on our run away from the dumpling place. "I can't believe you did that," Kelly says. "What do you mean?" Cordelia asks, her voice quivering just slightly with concern. "You know they spit on the fruit," I tell her and she gags.

Embarrassed, slightly abused, and still a little peckish, we disappear in search of a bar in hopes that we can put a good spin on the story.

Will to eat...fading

I feel as if I have been running for days. My hands are cracked, my legs are tight with exhaustion, and I am wearing lethargy like a cape. I have been on an eating marathon.

I wake up from a night of drunken debauchery (see "Homeless fishman Christmas) and suffer through a few hours of work before schlepping back into the city for FoSF's chunkier, raucous cousin...Meat Fest. After helping Kelly finalize his apartment cleaning, I rush to the North End to pick up Evie and we return to find Kelly in full swing. A cheese platter also fitted with pate, chorizo, and prosciutto stare up at us, and we graze through the final moments of chaos that dominate Kelly's kitchen.

The menu, surprisingly, has a few vegetarian options (more so than I would have imagined)...but they are so thick with starches and carbs that they may as well be bacon wrapped around chicken stuffed with quail. Kelly pours out the champagne into our glasses (cleverly marked with wine markers that fit our personalities...I am "understated but competent") and begins plating. Pan-seared cauliflower with garlic and capers are placed right next to his English potatoes slathered with herbed goat cheese (my favorite of the whole meal). Next comes Evie's mushroom pasta and her scallop and crab stuffed jumbo shrimp. Cordelia buzzes to be let in, joining us with a flush from the cold coloring her cheeks.

And then the meat appears. Beef Wellington, as big as my fist and coated with a glossy egg-wash, is pulled from the oven and Kelly begins cutting. Decorated with a puff pastry candy cane on it's surface, the pastry crumbles under the knife and the juices spill. The meat is pale and blushing in the center. Kelly divides it into quarters and we each get a slab.

I haven't really eaten all day. Still full from FoSF and just getting over my hangover, all I managed to trick my body into consuming is a small sandwich and water. By now, I am ravenous. I pile my plate with cauliflower, potatoes, pasta, a shrimp, more potatoes, and then the Beef Wellington. The meat is so perfect that I almost pick it clean out of its protective puff shell.

After gifts are exchanged, Kelly returns to the kitchen and Evie and Cordelia glow with delight. "Time for dessert," Kelly says and I can hear something sizzle on the pan. After a few moments, he scoops out a seared slab of jelly and doles out a portion on everyone's now empty plates. "It's foie gras," Cordelia says and divides a thick piece from her own with her fork. Kelly pours a Sauternes to pair and I look down with determination at my plate. By this point, I just want to cross the finish line. Fatty and smooth, with a crust of carmelization on the tops, the foie gras tastes delicious but makes my teeth feel slick. I rinse them off with the Sauternes and manage to clean my plate yet again.

As the night ends, I pull a comatose Kelly into the car with me to drive Evie back home and wish Cordelia a good night and happy holidays. I move automatically the entire drive knowing that, in a matter of hours, I will have to get up and start eating again for the holidays.

Homeless fishman Christmas

I slump over onto my desk. My computer stares back with judgment across its screen, knowing full well what I did last night. "Well, your shoes are at least different," Virginia says with a giggle. "So you only look a little homeless." I mumble something unintelligible and reach for my water. I feel twisted and rung out like a used sponge, but it was worth it for the Feast of the Seven Fishes.

The name itself evokes some sort of ancient ritual. It's other name is the Vigil [La Vigilia], which only enhances this feel. It has also been a tradition for Kelly's Bottega friends. Since we have been seriously dating, I have heard of the magical night from Kelly at odd times. It's always said with the glitter and awe that most see in five year olds when listening to them talk about Santa.

The day of, we gather/pre-game at Karen and Michael's apartment. Karen's mother coos at the baby as Michael pours champagne for a toast. A second toast is done when Cordelia arrives, and yet a third as we get to the restaurant and meet up with Evie. The waitress seats us at a gorgeous table in the back and Kelly makes the first choice of wine for the night. Nestled between Kelly and Cordelia, I keep shooting goofy looks to Karen (the only other non-wine geek) and prepare myself for the long haul.

Fish #1 - Cherrystone clams & pemaquid oysters with prosecco mignonette and lemon
Fish #2 - Duet of Tuna (yellowfin tartare, Spanish mojama, and artichoke)

The first two dishes come out almost in tandem. The salty shellfish barely sucked down before the waiter returns with the tuna. He refills our glasses [pouring a sliver more for me because, according to Kel, I am "the hot one"] and someone initiates "the Ugly Shell Game." As the clams and oysters are sucked down, we flip the shells over and stare at the coarse, raw sides blasted with years of saltwater. I have the contender for most of the game until Karen flips her knotted and pitted oyster.

Fish #3 - North End whipped baccala with olive oil, grilled bread, and wild mushrooms
Fish #4 - Neptune Waldorf salad with smoked salmon, grapes, walnuts, and apples

Evie picks the next bottle as Kelly chases the chef (a friend of the group's) back into the kitchen to make sure he knows about Karen's nut allergy. "Kelly! He knows!" she shouts as he disappears behind a corner. The baccala is airy and savory. I dollop more of what I can only assume is a fine mousse of mushroom and olive oil onto it and force myself to start pacing. I haven't really eaten all day and I binge on the fish and wine as if it were my last meal. The salad is just as delicious--Karen's well-being saved by her own plate with some hot pepper to replace the effect of the missing nuts.

Fish #5 - George's Bank diver scallops with celery root, golden raisins, and petite mache
Fish #6 - Grilled Main lobster tail with buttery leeks, shaved black truffle, and chanterelles

Michael's turn for another white that pairs as perfectly with the fish as the previous choices. The scallops are plated like delicate sculptures, looking very much like the netsuke display at the MFA. Caramelized on top, they melt away from the fork in a way I have never seen in seafood and I swallow mine with as much gusto as the baccala. "This is my favorite holiday tradition!" Kelly beams and Michael smiles wide. "That's eight," he says and the rest of the wine geeks applaud Cordelia for her guess. "We had a pool going to see how many times he would say that," Karen explains to me as Kelly faux-fumes.

Fish #7 - Roasted monkfish with shellfish brodetto, roasted tomato, and olives

Kelly's indignation is cut off by the last fish. At this point, I am a human aquarium with the devoured fish swimming in the perfect whites. Cordelia makes the last wine choice and I look down at my monkfish. The last serving on the plate, it's heaped with vegetables and looks nothing like the monster it came from. Drinking a generous helping of the new wine, I plow through the fish before foisting my shellfish brodetto onto Kelly. The other people at the table, however, are in a similar state...nursing their wine glasses and looking down at the ruins of their plates.

After the "Merry Christmases" and drunken hugs, Kelly and I load up into a cab back to Cambridge. Content and lit like a Christmas tree, I drunkenly hug his arm the whole ride back. "And just think," Kelly says with an evil smile, "You get to do the meat feast tomorrow..."

To be continued.

'Tis the season to get really fat

The entire apartment smells like nutmeg and smoke. I crack the oven door, gag on the dragon's breath curling out in gray wisps, and slam it shut as soon as I'm sure that nothing is really on fire. I have had this new oven/apartment for a few months and this is the first time it has fought back. Have I been using it too much? I did a few items for Thanksgiving, a pie here or there, dinner...nothing too strenuous. In fact, it has been training with me these past couple of weeks. We've gotten up early everyday, downed a glass of raw egg yokes, and worked out for hours until we're sweating/rusting. It's Christmas/Hanukkah, which means cookies.

For the past few years, or rather for the past few years that I had steady employment, I have been baking cookies for the girls at the office. Virginia, Baxter, and Peggy have been putting up with my crap all year, and I show my appreciation by adding to their waistlines. I usually wait until the cookie tins go on sale at the local craft store, and then I plan on how to fill them [the tins and my co-workers]. Last year, the girls and I came to the idea of an informal cookie swap for the department if only because (1) it is cheaper than gift cards and (2) we were already doing one unintentionally.

Last year, I cranked out:

• Chocolate cherry squares
• Mexican wedding cakes
• Eggnog cookies
• Peppermint snowballs

This year, I decided to up the quality instead of the quantity [and I actually have a S.O. to shop for, which adds a whole person to budget for]:

• Port brownies
• Eggnog cookies
• Kris Kringles with dried cherries

I pull the first batch of the eggnog cookies out of the oven, but smear one with a stray thumb. Moving them from the sheets to the cooling racks, I pull the smooshed cookie off and pop it in my mouth. Richer than a normal sugar cookie [from the generous splash of eggnog], it tastes like Christmas/Hanukkah. The whole kitchen smells of cinnamon and nutmeg instead of the strange smoke from my tired oven. As it catches its second wind, I add the second batch and rinse out my mixing bowl. Looking down at the neat rows on the cooling rack, I decide to smoosh two more to make the rows even and check to make sure these, too, aren't poisonous.

Let me count the ways...

It is usually this way many a morning. I wake up with my alarm pulling at my ears, punching me in the face with each shrill beep and squeak. I pull myself from the comforting arms of the bed (and often Kelly) to stare my reflection down in the mirror and dare him to say something. My hair is a mess, smooshed down along some strange plane that I can't pretend is a chosen style. My entire face hurts from the pressure building behind it and being forced to squint in the angry sunlight. I remain in my inhuman state until my third cup of coffee, where I start to return to the self I abandoned the night before.

On the mornings after that Kelly gets up with me, he is chipper from the get-go. Shiny and excited in the poisonous way that only morning people can be, he chatters at me, goading me to answer something more than "ugh," "meh," or "I will kill you" in a bleary, raspy monotone. Unlike most of humanity (leading me to believe my boyfriend is a gay robot), Kelly doesn't suffer from hangovers.

Before dating him, I didn't really drink that much. In college, yes...but only on weekends and the stray Thursday that I didn't have a meeting at one of the magazines I interned at or with my thesis advisor. I also am a fairly small man, or as Samantha likes to say, "You're too damn skinny." My mother also gets giggly from just smelling wine, so the fates are against me for having any sort of tolerance. Where most would be happy to have such a "cheap date," Kelly is slightly embarrassed and surprised the times that I manage to keep up.

One morning at brunch, he watches me sit silently, sip my third or fourth cup of life, and scrape at the remains of my pancakes, before saying "You know, you should write about the downsides of dating me." I arch an eyebrow. "You always brag about the free food, drinks, and going to these great parties and things, but you never tell them about the other stuff."

And he's right. Therefore, let me include my list of top three things that I do not enjoy about dating a foodie...

1. "Why hello Mr. Scale..."
Since I have started dating Kelly, I have gained a lot of weight. When we first met, my doctor was concerned that I was a little too thin and wanted me to try and go from 140lbs to at least 160lbs. At this time, my pants were too large and I had to start wearing a 30-inch waist. Now, eight months later, I am heavier than I have ever been. With all the rich foods, alcohol, and constant eating out, I have shot past my doctor's desired weight by 10lbs. My old pants that were too big are a pinch too tight in the waist and I have already begun trying to remember my old work-out schedule.

2. "Stupid, vile Daystar"
As mentioned above, Kelly has an iron liver that refuses to let him be punished. I, on the other hand, can't have more than a glass of wine before I have to start chugging water to combat the effects. I also have a caffeine addiction, which means that I am not safe for human consumption in the mornings until I have emptied a coffee mug. Kelly doesn't share my habits and likes to test how far he can go each morning by putting his hands in the lion's den and grabbing the tail.

3. "Could you sign it 'to Sherry, love Kelly'?"
It doesn't really matter where we go out, it is inevitable that I will be subjected to another foodie who must talk about X while Kelly and I are waiting for our entrees. Boston is a small city and the industry is even smaller. Burger joints, bagel shops, even a hole-in-the-wall donut shop in Allston all had someone in them that recognized Kelly and wanted to talk about this person's list at such a place. At first it wasn't an issue, and I actually thought it was cute to watch him geek out with another wine buyer or chef. Now, I just want to eat my bagel in peace and not have to worry about contributing to a conversation that was only half in English. "Beaujo-who? No, never heard of him...pass the cream cheese?"

Gobble gobble

I'm physically and emotionally exhausted. Work has been running me ragged even more so than usual. I walk around the office wearing what Virginia so eloquently refers to as "badger face" and chew out someone for throwing in the history of document outsourcing into their analysis for the sole purpose of padding their piece. The stress only adds to my frustration and makes it very difficult to function. I have no drive to blog, my attempt for NaNoWriMo is nowhere near the word count I should have (I might be able to get 25,000 of my 50,000 words written this year), and I couldn't want to do really anything beyond escape into someone else's life [read as books and TV].

"You have Thanksgiving plans?" Kelly asks as he tries to massage the cold steel knots out of my back. His thumbs dig one out of my left side and I have to turn my head to keep from speaking into the pillow. "We're not really a big Thanksgiving family," I tell him.

For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving has always been a sort of meh holiday for me. It's the one holiday that my family doesn't really go all out for. We do the turkey, stuffing, and the rest of the expected menu, but beyond a special grace and a jigsaw puzzle the day could be any other out of the month. My mother's side, which dominates most of the East Coast, keeps to itself and we all do our own things. I may see my grandparents, but they usually have other plans. All in all, the day is observed by my father watching the Game while Mom, D, Ej, and I look for edges and curse the artist who decided that a reflection was needed for the puzzle to really shine.

This year, however, it was something that I was truly thankful for...an honest to God holiday. A day where I don't have to argue with imbeciles, decipher broken English, or explain for the umpteenth time that no, punctuation is not optional or subjective to your style of writing. I drive from Kelly's apartment to my own and begin whipping up my expected sides. This year, Mom had mostly everything under control...and by that I mean she remembered last minute and decided to go ultra-simple. Green bean casserole and her grandmother's potatoes were made the night before. The rolls were bought from the grocery store's bakery. The turkey was already thawing in the fridge. All she needed was a little help.

I originally planned to do a pumpkin pie (I bought an apple pie for my siblings, who don't care for the pumpkin version) and two sides, but in the end was told by mom to just do the sides as Grandma was swinging by on the way to some other function and was bringing a pumpkin pie of her own. To keep with mom's theme of simple sides, I stole two recipes to work with. Kelly's roasted brussell sprouts with bacon took minutes, but I ended up getting distracted by multitasking and burned one side of the bacon. Stella (of Bravetart fame) provided me with her savory apple tart, and I used it to make her tart's hillbilly, bastard cousin. Where she uses fresh, home-made dough, the perfect produce, and the right amount of cheese, I did everything I could to cut corners. Pre-made chilled pie dough? Check. Left over onion from the previous week's chili and stir fry recipies? Check. McIntosh apples that I settled on after I couldn't find golden delicious or galas? Check. Check. Check. The only fresh thing that resembles something close to her recipe is the block of Gruyere that I shave and melt in small blobs of delicious salt along the top.

I get everything assembled and cooked in an hour. I shower as the tart cools and prepare everything for the traffic-choked car ride to my parents' place. Although we don't really celebrate, the day is already providing me with more relaxation than I've had in weeks. I slowly creep along 93 with everyone else in the state, but I find the Smiths on the radio. I sing along and realize as I pass the exit for the Ponkapoag Trail/Houghton's Pond that the apple pie is still in my fridge. "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us/ to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die," Morrisey sings and I join back up with the next verse. I refuse to get upset further, not when the day will be spent doing nothing and I won't feel guilty about it. The pleasure, the privilege is mine.

It's like making toast, apparently...

"Oh, I just threw it together." It's a phrase that I use with sketches, casseroles, baked goods, and (in the most recent case) Halloween costumes for work. With Kelly and his friends, it's for things that take me hours to make.

"Oh, I just threw it together," Kelly said the night he first cooked for me. This was in regards to risotto with spring vegetables and sausage. A meal that I would have to SLAVE over. It was perfect in that the grains were tender, the vegetables still retaining some crunch, and a wonderful sauce that accented the spice of the sausage. "[Blank], please," Samantha said the next day during our usual get-togethers to rehash the evening in HD detail. "You do not just throw that [blank] together."

But Kel isn't the only offender. "Oh, I just threw it together," Kelly's friend Tawny said as she welcomed us into the apartment she shared with their friend Mara. Her "it" ended up being cod hushpuppies, lobster tails in clarified butter, avocado salad, and some sort of bruschetta/pizza-esque item. I have never made lobster anything...let alone in clarified butter (which itself takes me a good 10 minutes to make sure that I don't burn it). And, of course, everything tasted as if it came out of the sea dressed in parsley with lemon juice dabbed behind the valves.

The funniest thing about all of this is that Kelly doesn't understand how ridiculous it sounds when he tries to defend it. "It's just a standard dish," he said when he defended his supposedly easy risotto. "I make it all the time." And I make forgeries of Seurat's "A Sunday Afternoon" during commercial breaks. It really all comes down to the fact that I'm not an industry person, which he seems to forget except for instances where he "just threw it together." But it works other ways, too. I was apparently the lucky charm for charades, having won every round. I can wrap gifts and embellish them with ease so that Martha might see me as a threat to her sharp cornered empire. And like every other intelligent person I have ever met that is numbers orientated, Kelly can't spell with confidence. Confidence. C-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-c-e. And I didn't even need it used in a sentence.

Baby it's cold outside

It's usually around this time that I start to bring out my autumn recipes. The sweet smell of rotting leaves, the bite in the air, the mounds of apples in every market and grocery store...I start bringing out the stuffed apples, the gingerbread, and anything with cinnamon in it. But one of my heartier meals that I do quite often is chili (see what I did there?).

Mom really would only do chili every once and a while. I'd have it in college, but no one really likes their cafeteria. It wasn't until I started living with Lou that I began to really appreciate it. She never worked Mondays, so it was usually on those days that I would come home from work, exhausted and not wanting to cook, and find the house smelling sharp and red. Lou's chili was always simple and easy to replicate...beef (or turkey), red kidney beans, black beans, garbanzo beans, tomato soup, chili powder.

When Lou moved back to the West coast, I took up her recipe. I added my own touches...cumin, red pepper flakes, garlic, diced onion, cilantro, crushed tomatoes. Eventually, I cut down the bean count from three to two after Virginia at work saw my chili lunch and her only response was "Wow, that's a lot of beans..." instead of the usual "Ooh, that looks good."

Recently, I had dinner with Karen and Michael with Kelly making his chili. The wine was served, of course, and then Kelly went to work. As I chatted with Karen about going back after maternity leave, I watched him add the usual fare with tomato paste, cheese rinds, pork stock, chicken stock, beef stock, sausage, the baby...but it was Michael's addition that caught my attention. After cleaning them, he chops up a few large potatoes and roasts them in the oven. Once they had a cracked, crisp skin, Kelly makes a bed of potatoes in each of the bowls. It is one of the best batches I have ever eaten. I wonder why I haven't thought of doing this a long, long time ago.

A cooking crossover

I watch the butter melt into gold, three thin strips of the remaining bars bobbing in the saucepan. I'm careful to keep the temperature low per Stella's instructions. As an actual foodie, I have some comfort that, out of the two of us, someone knows what she's doing.

As the proprietor of the fun BraveTart (http://bravetart.com/), she runs her own blog as an actual chef...with a pro photographer friend who does the food shots. She's also a good friend of Kelly's. Hoping to make sure the recipes that she includes for each blog post are easy to use, Stella (via Kelly) asked if I would be interested in trying some out to help her troubleshoot the instructions.

After visiting her blog and returning to my own dog-and-pony show, I decided that the Port Brownies would be something close to my speed (I am a baker in my own right...ish). I run to the grocery and sigh at the darkened signs of the two liquor stores I pass along the way. Damn dry states shutting down alcohol sales on Sundays... I get the rest of the ingredients that I don't already own and resign myself to substituting coffee for the Port (a legal substitution in Stella's eyes). I hate to admit it, but I'm a little nervous.

I've been baking for decades now. I would cook with my mother and eventually became the go-to guy for desserts. Tiramisu, cakes, brownies, cookies (a specialty of mine, if I can brag a little) all became standard on my weekends. I eventually graduated in High School to side dishes on Thanksgiving and the odd dinner when Mom couldn't step out of her office. In college, I did everything but the Turkey at Thanksgiving and several desserts for the holidays. "You should really sell these," my cousin Andy said one Christmas as he swallowed another one of my Mexican Wedding Cakes.

But Stella's recipes are well beyond me. "12 ounces butter, clarified" Stella tells me after her charming introduction. Well [expletive deleted]... I see that all the "normal" ingredients in the usual list have been replaced by their scientific cousins. For every teaspoon, there is an ounce of this or that. I wipe the dew from my forehead, grateful that I don't have to weigh my eggs. I take a deep breath and read through the entire list again. In one moment, I turn from Julia Child into Betty Crocker. I search the Internet and stumble into "Convertme.com" and cross my fingers. I copy the conversions into cups and tablespoons, scribbling everything down and praying that everything comes out right. A full cup of cocoa powder seems like a lot (esp. since there already is 12oz of unsweetened chocolate already in the recipe), but there are six eggs so I make a small prayer and follow my new E-Z Bake Oven instructions.

The brownie batter becomes fudgy and thick, an oily slick of brown that tastes delicious as I lick a few stray blobs off of my knuckles. I smear a streak along my jaw and spill flour onto the counter top. I regress back to being six and making chocolate chip cookies under Mom's ever-vigilant attention. I manage to get the batter out of the mixer and into the prepared pan. I follow Stella's tip to line it with tinfoil for easy clean-up, but panic and smear a little grease along the exposed sides to keep them from sticking. I stick it into the pre-heated oven, letting go and letting God.

I wipe down the counter tops and wash my hands for the fiftieth time. Checking the brownies in the oven, they look like every other batch that I have ever made. I laugh at myself and look at the clock on the microwave. Kelly will be getting out of work soon and heading over here. A willing test subject.

Meal of champions

Note: The lack of posting has been due to a move into a new apartment. I just got the Internet back a mere few hours ago.

Kelly and I hover at the bar. He sips at a bloody mary (something he was craving), but I shake off any offers for a drink myself. We're on a mission. I am so hungry, I can find kinship with the Donner Party. The two healthy looking girls tucked in the corner look like they would make amazing sausage.

"Mark? Party of Two?" the hostess calls and I give the sausage girls one last look before I follow her and Kelly to our table. We've been up for hours, but haven't gotten anything to eat until just now. The waitress comes, a cheery girl I recognize from our many trips here, and we order without looking at the menu. There was never an option to what we would be getting. For the past few months, every Sunday brunch we went, Kelly and I ordered a drink (cocktail for him, sweet life-blood of the gods [read coffee] for me), pancakes, and a side of bacon. "You know, I think breakfast may be our thing," Kelly says as I stare the waitress down until she flips my mug over and fills it. I doctor it with the smooth movements of an addict and take the first sip to regaining the humanity I lost overnight. "Most couples do dinner, but we seem to do breakfast and brunch the most."

I try to justify it, but my brain isn't quite working yet. Breakfast has never really been a major meal for me. Growing up, it was pop-tarts or toast before the bus (Mom letting my siblings and I sleep-in as long as possible). In college, it was coffee, a cigarette, and maybe a bowl of soggy cereal. I quit smoking my junior year and increased my caffeine intake (against doctor's orders), to the point that breakfast was several cups of coffee before my latest temp job. The fact that it's "the meal" I have with my boyfriend is surreal (think less melty-clock Dali and more nude with a backbrace, nails driven into the flesh, and a rotting stone column where the spine should be Khalo).

Our order arrives as the folk band starts up another song. Kelly and I do the small talk thing for a moment, but the conversation fades into the clink of forks and knives on plates, ice sloshing in glasses, and my spoon stirring more cream into my coffee.

(The art references are "La Persistencia de la Memoria/the Persistence of Memory" by Salvidor Dali and "La Columna Rota/The Broken Column" by Frida Khalo.)

"Untitled #10" or "Mildstone"...

"Oh c'mon!" Kelly says as we walk to the Central T stop. "It's great...get it, 'cause it's not really a milestone." "I don't know, hon'," I say, trying to think of a better title. I always hate titling my blogs because they sort of need to be intuitive for me. I was the same way when I was doing my poetry thesis in college...changing the titles as often as I changed my hair (hot pink to shaved to afro to red to shaved again...). We catch the 82 bus and then take the T to Park for dinner.

The restaurant has a retro vibe and antique tchochkes piled in the corners. As soon as we get down the stairs to the actual dining room, Kelly spots two or three people he knows. BFG, who I met at a Gin Event, gets us cocktails as we wait for our table. "Happy anniversary," I say and we clink glasses.

I still cannot believe that we have been together for six months. It seems like only a week or so ago that he was introducing me as "Matt" to impress me with his connections and spilling full glasses of water square into my lap. I can still see his face as he moved with those practiced steps earned in the industry to pat my crotch dry and then freeze with his hands only inches away. "I'm gonna let you do that," he said and hovered by his chair, too embarrassed to sit back down and more shades of red than what is found in the produce aisle.

Kelly orders a rose for the table, goes through the motions, and looks down at his menu already too aware of what he was getting. On our second date, I was told it would months before we could come here because he wanted to make sure I was the one before he "made sweet, sweet mouth-love to a platter of buffalo wings." I agreed whole-heartily because, really, you can't come back from that after watching the person you [insert sex act here] with suck the tender bits off of a drumstick, their face and fingers Oompa Loompa orange with sauce, if you're not committed.

We order a couple of platters of comfort food (one being the mythical wings, which are worth all the hype) and I enjoy the low-light and the choreography of dining with Kelly. Among the talking, pausing to eat when the other person takes up the conversation, I let him take both his water glass and mine ("Yours is nicer 'cause it still has ice," he says and moves my glass closer to him.) and watch as we move from wine stem to water glass to a double wine stem straight to water glass. The conversation dwindles a little and Kelly checks the movie times on his phone. Having done the uber-comfortable couch marathons for the past few dates, it's nice to do something special for our anniversary...even if it's as heteronormative as dinner and a movie.

Kelly pays understanding that I would grab candy and the movie tickets. I wet-nap my hands and the corners of my mouth as he begins the teasing over what I will inevitably grab from the nearby CVS. "You going to get your Werther's Originals?" Kelly asks behind my water glass. "They're bull's-eyes," I defend. "Afraid they'll break your dentures?" "Oh no, I made sure to use my Poli-grip for tonight." Kelly laughs and signs the restaurant copy. Taking my hand, we walk back up the stairs and into the balmy night.

The smell of baking spices in the air

It's raining and gray. The slightly humid air has the effect of a drunk's breath blowing against the back of your neck while you're wedging yourself up to the bar. But in all of this blandness, the oak tree outside my kitchen window has started turning school bus yellow.

Although autumn and spring are transition seasons that my body hates (spring pollen = sinus headaches; autumn mold = sexy phlegm), they're both seasons that I love. Spring is visually stunning with the new red growth on the trees and the first flowers pushing through the crusting ice. Autumn, however, has the best foods. Growing up in New England, autumn meant apples, cinnamon, ginger, cranberries, pumpkin, allspice, molasses..."Baking spices," Kelly says when I enthuse at the dropping temperature. "Cinnamon, ginger, they're a part of the so-called baking spices." I call them wonderful.

My love for autumn flavors expands from the normal (apple pie) to offensively fake (pumpkin spice latte) to the strange. Virginia, one of the few people I actually like at work, gushed with me during a necessary break from our respective computer screens. Together, we break down the logistics of making an unholy abomination of deliciousness...apple pie sushi. "You could use the pie dough as a nori roll," she says with her eyes alight, "and shred some apple for the rice. Ooh! You should wedge in raisins or walnuts in place of the veggie pieces...make one of those rolls where they make flower shapes when it's cut!" I don't know where the idea came from or how we got side tracked onto it--I just know that there are several golden delicious in my fruit bowl and a pre-made pie crust de-thawing on my counter.

Top 5 Autumn flavors that I will overdose on for the next three months:
5. Maple (I did go to college in Vermont, after all...)
4. Molasses (Boston Molasses Flood or no)
3. Pumpkin
2. Apple (Pink ladies being my favorite for snacking; Macintosh, Golden Delicious, and Granny Smith for baking)
1. Cinnamon

No. 9

Evie's boobs are so exposed that they are almost the fourth member of our dinner party. Her hair is still salon shiny and she nurses three drinks: a cocktail, an aperitif, and a glass of ice water. "I don't look too Housewives of Jersey, right?" she asks. Kelly and I assure her that she has stopped from reaching the HoJ point-of-no-return, but I can't help but keep looking down at the blue leopard print straining over her chest.

The day has been long and I'm a little cranky. Work hasn't been my favorite thing for a while, and I manage to go another day without (deservingly) eating someone's face or bursting into hysterics. Kelly rushing me to get from work to home to back into the city in record time didn't help, but (as always) he has the best intentions. I would have felt horrible making everyone late for our dinner plans...the nine-course chef's tasting menu. The idea of so many plates makes my head spin and I think it is one of the major factors keeping me from said face-eating (I wouldn't be able to do all those courses if I filled up at work on face marinated in idiocy).

Course #1 - Cocktails
Although not an actual part of dinner, I have come to learn that liquor is often a parenthesis to eating. Taking a seat with Evie at the bar, she flirts casually with the bartender who pours the same aperitif for Kelly and I. For Kel, he makes a bubbly tequila concoction. I get some strange, frozen potion with lemon and absinthe...a little green fairy for the fairy.

Course #2 - Chilled Maine Lobster with matsutake mushroom, Burgundy truffle, and corn jus
We take our seats and stare out into the park. Just before the Statehouse, the street is gorgeous in the late evening and the city blinks to make up for the lack of stars. The waiters, who all know Kelly and Evie, charm us with some stories of a past wedding they all worked together and bring over rolls. "Don't fill up on bread," Kelly warns, but I'm starving. I down my cocktail, a roll, and watch as something bubbly and pink is poured into our flutes.

Course #3 - Roasted codfish with artichokes, preserved lemon, and pickled peppers
The lobster is okay, but shellfish have never really been my favorite. The plates are cleared and I'm asked to approve the white. I stare up at the waiter. "You're kidding, right?" I ask. It's like having someone colorblind assess a Degas or Monet. I try to remember all the steps, but Kelly giggles to himself when I take the four quick, successive sniffs so I know I've forgotten something. The white is poured ("It tastes like fresh band-aid," the wine geeks agree and I shrug. I think it's great.) and the codfish is served. I stuff it quickly into my mouth and use the flake of skin along the top as a pita for my artichoke "burrito".

Course #4 - Whole wheat bigoli with littleneck clams, heirloom tomato, and bottarga
I have no idea what a "bottarga" is, but the pasta is nice. Set into a massive bowl, the center that holds the carb nest topped with tomato is no larger than my fist. I've been dreading not being able to finish, but I polish off the pasta and (like a good Sicilian boy) tear another roll to wipe the sauce off the bowl.

Course #5 - Prune stuffed gnocchi with foie gras, toasted almonds, and VinSanto
There's a choice for some for the fifth course, but I saw "gnocchi" as soon as I sat down and it was decided for me. "The chef here is known for her gnocchi," Evie says. "They switch everything off, but there was almost a riot when she tried to take it off the menu." Our waiter returns and begins to decant the red for the evening. Baring a bright orange eye (representing an apparent fire that ravaged the vineyard) Kelly is called to approve it. He goes through the motions and smiles wide. "Black tar!" he calls. "Oh I have to smell," Evie says and extends her goblet. The wine, a splash of red fresh from the vein, stains the glass and she swirls it expertly. "Black tar!" she calls back. The wine geeks call scent markers back and forth as I fend Kelly away from the gnocchi plated before me with my fork.

Course #6 - Assiette of rabbit with pistachio, baby carrot (kind of sick, right?) and vincotto
The plate seems huge since the rabbit pieces are each no larger than a quarter. The waiter kindly points out the belly (essentially rabbit bacon); loin (agreeably the tastiest part); and the ribs, which look like miniature pork ribs. It takes me a whole two minutes to suck the rabbit off of the ribs and all but lick the plate clean.

Course #7 - Calotte de boeuf featuring petite frites, arugula, and braised short rib
Another huge plate with teenie meat, I can almost hide one of the calottes under the stack of frites. I pop the entire bundle in my mouth as Kelly and Evie's eyes widen. "It tastes like raspberry compote!" Evie squeals as she sips the now sweeter red. I try to see for myself, but the liquor has caught up to me and my small portions. I sit as straight as possible, convinced that if I give just an inch that I'll be a giggling mess under the table. Kelly assesses me with an arched eyebrow (I hate that he reads people so well) and shares a secret smile.

Course #8 - Artisanal cheeses
The cheese expert, Brie, (I can't recall if they have an official title, but I'm sure they do) is a long-time friend of both wine geeks and our dinner conversation degrades to Kelly singing "I think we're alone now", much to the delight of the woman next to us who claims that particular song as her Karaoke jam. The three of us each pick a cheese and two others are selected by the professional Brie. "You know I used to go to school near the Von Trapp Farmstead," I slur to Brie, who claps my shoulders in a hug and laughs. "Too cool," she says and moves her cart onto the next table.

Course #9 - Chocolate marquis with roasted white chocolate, basil, and anise hyssop
The dessert is a little strange, but I drunkenly shovel it into my mouth. As it is a belated birthday celebration for Evie and Kel, theirs come with knobby candles that they blow out carefully as to not smudge the chocolate writing on the plate. I down the rest of my ice water, hoping to end the inevitable hangover before it comes, and give myself the hiccups instead. The night ends and Kelly and I kiss Evie good-bye, slinking back to the Park St. station giggling and satisfied.

2007 Panevino Ogu Isola dei Nuraghi - A delicious red that actually does have a slight asphalt taste that softens as it aerates. I feel the need to point out that one of the scent notes discussed was baby diaper (not here, but it has apparently appeared in the past). To quote Kelly, "Poopy diaper is the best!" Who'd have thunk it?