I didn't always love to cook.
In my younger years, railing against the traditional views of my family, I had taken pride in loudly eschewing anything domestic. I was going to be a writer, a true artist, living on scraps as I channelled divine inspiration onto the page.
When I am cooking now, dropping into the familiar, meditative comfort of chopping vegetables, moving smoothly through the kitchen, measuring, stirring, tasting, my mind often drifts to Rachel.
Rachel, lovely Rachel, who looked at me on a cold, blustery night and saw who I was, long before I did.
She knew I would cook, one day, she knew I would write, and she knew so much more. Rachel, my muse.
Where is she now?
*****
Rachel lived on the main floor of a house that had been converted into a duplex, and the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the French doors that opened onto the garden, blanketed now in snow.
I pushed my toque and mittens into the pockets of my heavy parka, stamping snow onto the doormat. I shrugged out of my snow flecked coat and Rachel took it from me to hang in the closet. I bent down to unlace my boots.
"God, it's cold out there!" My fingers felt numb and clumsy as they worked at the laces.
"I can't believe you walked over here, Amy!"
I shrugged. "On a night like this it takes longer to wait for the bus, and I hate standing still in the cold." I cupped my frozen cheeks in my hands, which were only slightly warmer. They must have been red, like berries.
"Well, I'm so glad we were finally able to do this. Come in!" She led me to the living room and gestured towards the squashy sofa. "Can I get you something to drink? I'm having a beer, but I know you're not much of a beer fan. I have a mediocre red?"
I laughed. "A mediocre red suits me fine. I won't even know the difference."
Rachel laughed too and disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with her beer and my glass of wine, settling into the couch beside me.
An hour flew by. We talked about school, our passion for art. We were both in the MFA programme, her for music, me for writing. It was such an easy ebb and flow of conversation, like it always was when we were together.
It seemed impossible that we'd only known each other a few months. We'd clicked right away at the first pub night for graduate students.
I knew we'd go our separate ways after we graduated. I didn't know where I'd end up, but she'd go back to the east coast. Her voice had that lazy pace and charming twang of a born and bred Maritimer, and I knew she'd never entertain living anywhere else. But I also knew that if we met again after decades apart, we'd fall into the same flowing conversation as if no time had passed.
She was so hypnotising, Rachel. I found my eyes constantly drawn to her face, even when there was a crowd of people in the room. I described her once to a male classmate, and I said "You know Rachel: about five-three, wavy brown hair, brown eyes? Really beautiful? She plays piano?
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Yeah, I know her. I don't know that I'd say she's beautiful, though."
Men. Honestly.
Rachel looked at her watch and stood up. "I'd better start cooking. Join me in the kitchen?"
I got up and followed her. She got another beer from the fridge, and poured me another glass of red. She clunked the neck of her beer bottle against the rim of my glass.
"Cheers, Amy." She looked up at me, smiling her open, wide grin and took a swig from the bottle. Her brown eyes were so dark they looked like molten chocolate, but they twinkled all the same.
I watched her as she bustled around the kitchen. She was just so effortlessly cool. There was so much energy vibrating from her tiny frame; it was as if you could feel warmth radiating from her. Her feet were bare, a defiant freedom against the cold wind outside, and she wore a soft white tee shirt and stylishly shredded jeans. Her hair fell below her shoulders, darker than mine but not quite as long.
In some ways, we were similar; similar interests, similar life goals, even similar colouring, although that's where our physical differences ended. I was long and lithe where she was small and compact. One day while we were eating lunch, she made me hold up my hand, and she pressed her fingers against mine, palm to palm.
"Your hands are beautiful," she sighed. "Look at those long fingers, the stretch you have! You should have been a pianist. You're wasted in the writing programme."
"You're right!" I teased. "Forget writing. It's all music now. Should I audition with "Chopsticks" or "Heart and Soul?"
She was three years older than me, having taken time off to work between high school and undergrad and again between undergrad and graduate school. I had gone straight through school without stopping. I envied her adventures.
Those years between us seemed like a lifetime of difference: she was so much more worldly and confident than I was. She'd travelled, really travelled, and was truly independent from her parents in a way that I wasn't - not yet, anyway.
I was leaning on the counter in her tiny kitchen, watching her. She gathered her ingredients on the counter. "Okay, I think that's all I need."
"What are we having? I asked, broken out of my reverie.
"Have you ever had spaghetti squash?"
I shook my head.
"Oh, you'll love it. It's so easy to make. And it's so good for you! Look..." She opened the oven door and pulled out two browned domes of squash on a baking sheet. "I roasted it this morning so it would be ready. I'll show you what I do with it. But first, let's make the sauce."
She busied herself chopping onions. I watched her slice each onion in half, then peel the skins. Then she sliced each half finely, turned it the other way, and sliced again to produce tiny dice. She threw the onion into a pot of hot oil and reached for the garlic. I watched her crush each clove with the side of her knife so that the skins came away easily.
She caught my eye as she lined up the cloves and paused. "Do you like to cook?"
"No," I said, automatically.
She tilted her head, surprised. Her eyes are pools, I thought. I could drown in them.
"Really?"
"Nope."
"Huh..." She paused for another moment, one hand on the garlic, the other on her knife. "I'm surprised."
"Really?" I asked. I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to stay home and play wifey by the stove all day. I had bigger adventures planned. She knew that, didn't she?
"I don't know." she said lightly, beginning to chop again. "You just strike me as someone who would really enjoy cooking."
All of a sudden, I felt exposed, seen. I felt hot and embarrassed and I didn't know where to look. I tried to deflect her.
"I enjoy eating!" I said, smiling. "And if someone cooks for me, I always do the dishes afterwards. It's only fair."
"Oh, that is a sweet deal!" Rachel laughed. "I'll cook for you anytime if you do the dishes."
She worked quickly and efficiently, tossing celery and carrots in with the onions, then the peppers. The chopped garlic sat in a mound on the cutting board. The apartment started to fill with the savoury aroma of cooking vegetables, and we chatted as she stirred the mixture.
"If you ever do start cooking," she said sternly, "remember the cardinal rule: the garlic is the last vegetable to be added, then you add the spices. Some people cook the garlic for as long as the onion, but the garlic will always burn if you do that."
She gave the vegetable mixture a stir, looked at it appraisingly, then tipped some of the beer from her bottle into the mixture and stirred it again.
"That's better," she said. "It was a bit dry. Besides, the beer will leave a little depth of flavour in the mix." After a moment, she added the garlic.
