Putting our market haul in the fridge and pantry,
I leave the entrecôtes sealed,
resting on the kitchen counter.
Same with
garlic,
tomatoes,
baby potatoes,
salads,
butter,
olive oil,
baguettes.
Cutting board,
knives come next.
I take a wine glass from the fridge,
pour him a Chardonnay,
peachy, crisp, unwooded from the Loire.
Condensation on the glass glitters in the evening sunshine.
Unrushed, he ties an apron around his waist,
kitchen towel and all,
sets up his girls.
Petra slicing concassé, crushing garlic, drizzling olive oil, toasting pain de campagne, making bruschetta.
Padme grinding ginger, slicing, drizzling sesame and olive oil over cucumber cold.
He tosses baby potatoes the size of cherry tomatoes in olive oil,
places them into the oven unsalted at high heat,
two bulbs of garlic sliced in half,
sips his wine,
jokes with his girls,
opens a bottle of red Bordeaux,
lets it breathe.
“You bitch,” I hear Petra calling Padme about something to do with their shared wardrobe.
Padme replies, “shithead,”
then all I hear is laughter.
He’s unfazed, slicing garlic cloves so thin they melt when touched.
He opens the other oven set at low heat,
two entrecôte’s raw, sweating,
fat melting, turning translucent yellow.
He probes the meat with a tip of his cooking fork,
brings it to his lower lip.
“60 seconds more.”
He adds heat to the new stainless steel Zwilling pan I bought for him,
at the outlet mall in Vila do Conde,
adds a little duck fat he keeps in a marmalade jar,
every time he cooks duck.
Towel in hand, he takes the tray of steaks from the oven,
places the first in the pan furthest from him,
waits;
allows the pan a second to regain heat;
adds the second steak,
takes a sip of wine.
Pours the red, "try this one."
By the time the meat is resting,
his women sit across from him on bar stools,
passing sides,
salads,
munching bruschetta,
the girls arguing about who gets to choose their cut first.
He cuts the steaks against the grain,
slices two-fingers wide,
ignoring our cackle of girls completely,
hands me the serving platter.
“Start on the left, medium rare for you,
bleu for them.”
The girls elbow each other to reach for the platter.
I watch him clean his knives,
watch him watching us,
from his side of the stove,
pretending not to notice him dabbing tears with his kitchen towel soiled.
My little one says, “Dad is crying!”
He smiles at her,
at me.
Still chewing on my last bite,
I walk over and displace him,
wiping, cleaning, stacking the dishwasher.
He says, “I’ve got this, you go chillax, shower, go.”
I say, “You cooked, you don’t clean.”
I allow him to wipe down the stove.
I reset the kitchen, top up his wine,
leave him sitting in my bar chair,
go shower.
By the time I return, I’ve run him a bath and say,
“Are you bringing the dogs in for the night?
Will you have a bath now?”
By the time he steps from our bathroom into our bedroom,
I’m already in bed.
