Allegra Goodman - The Cookbook Collector

“All right, this is what I have. Dungeness crab. Fresh salmon—by which I mean, caught yesterday. And asparagus.”

“I guess I could have that,” she said.

“Crab and salmon and asparagus?”

“The asparagus.”

“Good, we’ll have asparagus—with salmon on the side.” He set a pan on the stove for the fish, and began washing and trimming the asparagus. He spread the stalks in a roasting pan, drizzled them with olive oil, and popped the pan in the oven. Then he unwrapped the pink salmon. “This is so fresh, you can almost eat it just like this. Sashimi.” He smiled to see Jess back away. “We’ll melt butter in the pan and sear the fish and then we’ll eat it with a squeeze of lemon—or at least I will. Did you finish that already?” He poured her more.

She’d drunk two glasses by the time they sat down at the kitchen table, and she felt springy, a little bouncy in her chair as she nibbled her emerald-green asparagus, and he served himself the salmon.

“I like this way of roasting,” she said.

“Just remember to sprinkle kosher salt when you take them out of the oven.”

“Salt sings,” said Jess. The collector had copied that from Neruda. “Have you seen McClintock’s asparagus drawings?”

“Show me.”

“Not while we’re eating!”

“Right.” He poured out the last of the wine.

“Have you noticed his thing for asparagus?”

“And cabbages,” said George.

“Yes! He’s got heads of cabbage and cross sections and there’s a drawing of this veined cabbage leaf. I think it must have been his botanical training.” Jess was talking faster than usual, but then, she never had a chance to discuss the cookbooks, and she was brimming with impressions. “He draws asparagus and cabbages, but he’s obsessed with artichokes. He draws them more than any other vegetable. Why artichokes?”

George drained his glass. “The artichoke is a sexy beast. Thorns to cut you, leaves to peel, lighter and lighter as you strip away the outer layers, until you reach the soft heart’s core.”

Jess laughed and finished her third glass.

“Try this.” George offered her a bit of salmon on his fork.

The laughter stopped. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t eat other creatures.”

“This creature is already dead. You’re not hurting him. Let’s say he died for me. I’ll take the blame. I bought him so I killed him. Now you can have a taste.”

She shook her head.

“But it’s so good.” George offered her the flaky pink fish on his fork. “It tastes so good.”

“I’m not eating that poor forked animal.”

“Just try,” George cajoled, scooting his chair around the corner to her side of the table. “Just one bite.” He held the fork almost to her lips.

“George,” she said, “don’t you have certain things you would never do—on principle?”

“Arbitrary rules?”

“Any rules. Not necessarily arbitrary ones.”

“I have beliefs,” he said. “I have values. I think rules are overrated.”

“Is that, like, a sixties thing?” She looked at him questioningly, as though she were gazing back at him through the mists of time.

“Someday you’ll get asked about the Reagan years,” he said.

“You should try rules,” she pressed. “Then your beliefs would have practical applications, and you wouldn’t have to drift from one meal to the next. Instead of being so ad hoc, you could rely on a consistent system. Instead of making up your life as you go along, you’d have a set path. You wouldn’t have to reinvent the wheel. I think actually structure might be the key to oneness.”

“I think you’re a little drunk,” said George.

“I think you’re trying to impeach me.”

He laughed even as he protested. “That’s not true.”

“Well, I’m not drunk at all,” she warned him.

“And I’m not trying at all,” he retorted playfully.

“Hmm.” Her expression was both tender and reproachful. Her delicate hands rested on the table.

“Are you worried?” With his index finger George drew a question mark on her palm.

Almost imperceptibly she shook her head.

The light was shifting, the sky in the windows no longer bright, but watery, sea blue. They were close now, but the change was like nightfall. Neither knew exactly when it happened. They had been sitting apart, and now they found themselves in chairs pushed together. They had been talking, and now they touched instead, fingertips to wrists, and George could feel Jess’s quick pulse, and she could feel his.

“Are you in love with him?” George said.

She didn’t answer.

“Are you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“For the obvious reason.”

“Which is?”

“That I want to know.”

Lightly her fingertip glided over the back of his hand, tracing his scar up his arm.

“You’re tickling me.” He took her hand again.

“Did it hurt?” she asked him.

“Yes, it hurt,” he said.

“Who did that to you?”

“An old girlfriend.”

“You must have been nasty to her.”

“Why do you assume it was my fault?” he asked gently. “Even if it was—who goes after her lover with a paring knife? She was completely unbalanced. She did teach me how to cook.”

“Maybe you were such a slow learner she got frustrated.”

“I wasn’t a slow learner.”

“No?” she teased. Her eyes were much darker in the evening light.

“I’m a quick study,” he informed her. “I’m an excellent cook, but you’ll never know, because you don’t eat anything.”

“I eat lots of things,” she said.

“Judging from the peach, I’d say you eat a few things very well.”

“You were watching me?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you?”

His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist. “Because I wanted to.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“And because I never see you,” he added.

“You can see me whenever you like,” she told him. “You stay away.”

“Did you wish I would come home?”

She didn’t answer.

“Did you ever look around the house? Did you go upstairs?”

“No,” she said, although she had thought about it. Concepcion’s presence had prevented her. “I would never wander through your house without an invitation.”

“Come.” He took her hand.

She remembered climbing the stairs at the Tree House for the first time. “I think I am a little drunk.”

“We’ll go slow,” he promised as he led her up the stairs. “These are my nautical charts and surveyors’ plans.” He turned on the lights in the stairwell, and she saw the antique charts, the hand-drawn schemes of San Francisco Bay. “You can see I have plenty of maps. This is original stained glass here on the landing. You can’t tell at night, but I had it cleaned and restored. This place was a mess when I bought it. We copied these stair treads and spindles. This is my office.” He showed her a spacious room with a great desk in the center, and a computer and a photocopier. “These are guest rooms.” He opened one door after another.

“How many do you have?”

“Three. This is my room.” He switched on the lights, and when she blinked in the sudden glare, he turned them down again. His room was huge, with great windows above the bed, stacks of books on the smooth floor, a low music stand and chair, a cello in an open case.

Find someone musical , Jess thought. “Will you play for me?”

“Of course.” He sat down in his chair, but he did not reach for his cello. He held out his arms for Jess instead.

She sat on his lap and tucked up her legs, and he felt her weight, and her warmth, and he held still; he nearly held his breath, as she relaxed into his arms.