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Aug 14

I

It was 1:00 a.m.

I was in the Blue Ridge Mountains last December. 45 degrees. The clouds had gone away as well as the sun. I walked to a nearby field from the cabin I retreated to for the weekend. Laying my back on the earth, I breathed slowly to think clearly. As the sheer stars were tucked together like family—glowing in unity to make up a sheet of a designed, profound and undisputed work. My breath released heavy as I felt the complete severance from the speed of everyday life. The speed I couldn’t seem to predict. As the race I believed I was running was reforming itself each day. Social duties, holidays, dirty clothes, small talk, birthdays, broken phones, bills and car repairs. Here, I was surrounded only by the stars, trees and time. “Sometimes I wish for time to stop. I’ll be able to think. I’ll be able to focus,” I thought as my body rested on that mountain.

I breathed slowly.

I am often mystified how the wonder of life always prevails. I closed my eyes and thought this was the place, away from it all. Under the stars.

Those stars came to me again this April back in Opelika. They were a light dress, blanketed in stars, paired with old Adidas tennis shoes and a warm face that felt like the moon.

II

It was 6:30 p.m.

The Stars gathered two empty grocery bags, stepped down 19 stairs, and gently closed the house door behind her. I had my ’02 4Runner running on the curb outside. The starry dress approached, I kissed her cheek and guided her to her seat. I closed her door. The passenger side door was dented and rubs the body of the car each time it opened. The door yells “KACK!” I was embarrassed by the sound, yet The Stars didn’t mind. I walked around the front of the running car. I was wearing desert boots, black cotton pants, an off-white, short-sleeve button down with a terra cotta colored coat that I purchased earlier that day from the men’s clothing store on 1st Avenue. I mounted the driver’s seat and placed the car in drive. There were only few cars on the road that night. A quiet night it was shaping up to be. It was a Saturday.

We drove to my home on Rocky Brook a few streets down. I needed to retrieve my camera and a cookbook. The camera was a Canon Night Owl that a friend gave to me for free when I walked into his junk store during the Summer. I wanted to capture the stars she held. I ran in and out of my ranch style home. I leaped back in the Toyota.

As we rode, The Stars and I arranged the menu for the night from the cookbook called Carter’s Cookbook. It was very modern, yet with an old soul of recipes. The origin of the cookbook was New Zealand. It contained many simple toast, soup and salad combinations. It was a special occasion recipe book, with a back end of desserts to fix up—a sensibility that any 24-year-old would feel positive about.

Earlier, I picked up a liter of “Barbera Del Monferrato” from a local wine shop, the neighborhood spot for any occasional or not-so-occasional vino. The label caught my eye as The Stars agreed with my taste. The owner of the joint is a dear friend of ours. He normally greets a dear friend with “Howdy, Stranger!” and continues to remind everyone that “Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine!” It never gets old. The manager rolled her eyes, walked in the cellar and brought us the Barbara. The wine is grown in Piedmont, Italy. A clay soil, fermented in concrete. It has been our daily drinker. The bottle waits for its meal back at The Stars’ kitchen.

III

It was 7:05 p.m.

On our way to the grocery, we resumed menu building. I had my eye on the beetroot soup. The Stars was set on pasta with mussels. I put the vehicle in park. I think I forgot to get her door? “KACK!” Yep. Sorry.

Now, the grocery was a ghost town. Normally bustling, the grocery felt cloaked in solitude. When we did see a ghost, we remained at least a horse's distance away. The Stars smiled and waved as she always does. The ghosts didn’t pay mind. We worked the aisles. We communicated what we needed and what we wanted. We have a tradition of eating cookie dough, so, orderly, that was the first item we gathered. We moved to cheese, The Stars choose a mozzarella bar—I think you can identify cheese as bars. We moved to vegetables.

Now, the store didn’t have all the components. We had to improvise and rearrange the recipes. They didn’t have mussels, so The Stars grabbed halibut. She didn’t think I’d like it. She chose pappardelle for the pasta. We grabbed a giant bottle of olive oil, 15 stalks of parsley, one onion, a bottle of cream, a clove of garlic, and a bottle of white wine for the sauce. Tomatoes, carrots, and zucchini for color’s sake. Potatoes, blueberries and avocados for another day. A box of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans for sipping while we cook. The store didn’t have any beetroot, so we changed the direction to horseradish root. Using the cream to mimic an Austro-Hungarian recipe. We were unsure of that endeavor. We added a few stalks of red chard and kale and walked to checkout.

We placed our menu on the rolling belt from the overflowing grocery bags. I am unsure what exactly was said between us and the checkout clerk. Although, I remember the clerk was more than a ghost. She gave us a free avocado and a lot of luck for our date. The conversation was wholesome, and we were on our way once more.

IV

It was 8:20 p.m.

We headed back home. Driving down Fredrick road, we argued over why she didn’t like the sound of the singer Kevin Morby’s voice while simultaneously planning the fine details of our battle strategy for cooking our late-night meal.

We arrived back at The Star’s home. “Kack!”. Up the 19 stairs to the locked door.

*insert cooking noises and Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon”*

The onions cooked to transparency, zucchini softened, the halibut cooked in the oven. “I did my best to follow her orders as I diced the vegetables and measured the herbs and spices—all while carefully trying glances at The Stars whenever the moment allowed.”

That night we were the chefs and the line cooks. We were the hosts and the guests. We were the performers and the viewers. We were the waiters and the bus boys. We were the accountants and the owners. We were the lovers and the directors. She was the stars, and I had my back on the earth.

Our dinner was ready. The table was set. Time stopped.

In the weeks prior, a virus called the Coronavirus spread over the world. Mortality rates were growing by the day. Hospitals were running low on beds and able workers. World leaders ordered all persons to stay within their homes, only to leave for essential jobs and items. All nonessential businesses were closed or nearly closed. All schools, public places and parks were shut down, and all persons were ordered to stay at least six feet apart if in public.

For us, there was nowhere to be.

For us, time stopped.

My wish had come true.

V

It was 9:40 p.m.

It’s interesting what you pay attention to when you accept a grander sense of time, like what music we’d listen to that night. We spun a Bill Evans’ record, “Undercurrent,” while we ate. We had it delivered earlier that day to my house for this very occasion. Records on your doorstep is a good feeling—a shooting star feeling.

We prepared dinner like two Michelin star chefs. The pasta, dressed with white sauce and herbs de Provence, was beautiful and saved the halibut that we found to be a bit too chewy.

The soup was as clear as the water in Life of Pi because I forgot the cream. Not to mention it was way too hot. It took us 30 minutes just to be able to touch it; however, we didn’t mind. It promptly made its way into tupperware and then into the fridge. We ate everything else right away. The mistakes were just another ingredient, making the meal what it was—perfect.

The food in front of us was a gift. Our time together was a treasure. Compliments to the Chef.

At the dining table, The Stars and I asked ourselves, if we owned a restaurant what would it be like? We both agreed it would look, taste, sound and feel just like this. It would look like a home. It would taste like a home. It would sound and feel just like this. Home. We closed our eyes and knew we were in the right place.

Today, I open my eyes. I can still see a sheet of stars on a dress with old Adidas tennis shoes. I taste hot soup! I see the manager rolling her eyes. I hear music. I hear “KACK!”

I see the meal we made and all the countless things I am lucky to have. I feel complete. The wonder of life is all around me.

I breathe slowly and live my life.