Taste This

I had a five figure disappointment today. Small, in the scheme of things, having to do with real estate and the mistakes of others. I will not presume to bore you, Dear Reader, with those details. But as the barometric pressure of change continues to increase uncomfortably around me, I reach for familiar creature comforts as I navigate the landscape of disappointment. Above my kitchen sink is a shelf filled with old friends who have seen me through the worst of the worst: Clementine in the Kitchen, by Samuel Chamberlain; On Rue Tatin, by Susan Hermann Loomis; and My Life in France, by Julia Child.

I re-read these books at least once a year; these are the gods to which I pray. They are spotted with olive oil, smell of garlic and rosemary, and have endured the occasional-gee-I-got-a-little-carried-away splash of burgundy or cabernet sauvignon on their pages. I have cried on them, fallen asleep on them, slept with them against the advice of others. I have woken up with creases on my cheek, and a renewed song in my heart, having stayed up until the wee hours reading them. They are my besties, my BFF's (book friends forever) and they have never let me down.

They have gotten me through difficult jobs, job searches, new jobs, deaths expected and unexpected, demanding illnesses of family members. They have seen me safely and happily through cancer biopsies, an unfortunate but frequent occurrence in my life. When I first received the news that I needed to have a stereotactic biopsy for breast cancer, these were the books I read in the waiting room as I waited to have the drill pound for 120 cold, uncomfortable minutes into my chest, and started PT school a few days later, right pectorals packed with ice packs that I hid under a sweatshirt so no one would know. I read them again, the next year, as I went through a second surgery for removal of more tissue, "just in case." Every time I sat in the hospital waiting room, and watched the other women leave just as the nurse came out and said, "The doctor would like to speak with you", I gripped one of these books in my hand. Bury me with a flower and my rosary if you feel you must, but if I am not gripping one of these books in my hand in my casket, I will haunt you forever, and garlic will not ward off my spirit, it will only attract it.

So tonight, as I mull a minor disappointment that will surely pass out of my life as quickly as it came, I re-commit to old friends. I peruse and plan culinary joy for the rest of the week: Truite Meuniere. Turbot au Vin Blanc. Moule Mariniere. Potatoes will be roasted to perfection, garlicky vinagrettes will be created and poured over everything in site. Camembert and gorganzola will be warmed to room temperature. Baguettes will be warmed to sop up every bit of every delicious sauce. Radishes will be buttered and salted, pears and apples will be soaked in brandy, and I predict that by the end of the week I will feel so good again I will be waving the Blue, White and Red Tricolor of my heartland with the music of "Les Miserables" on my lips. If you don't drown your sorrows in olive oil, garlic and wine, well then god, I don't even wanna know ya.