Food and Love

Food and love. They go together like, well, peanut butter and jelly.

Sharing a meal is delightful and flirting around in the kitchen together beforehand? There’s nothing like it.

This coming from a girl who takes an unabashed pleasure in eating alone. It’s my most favorite selfish act. I’ll whip something up – exactly what I’m in the mood for, when I’m in the mood for it – light some candles, pour a glass of red wine and put on a little Nina Simone. I’ll linger over dinner and, preferably, the latest issue of New York magazine. Or, I’ll go out to a favorite restaurant and pull up a stool at the bar. I’ll eat and just watching the rest of the world be social around me.

Despite my love of flying solo, a perfect date over a perfect dinner truly is unbeatable. This Sunday, I started my march toward becoming a better cook. It was the first in a series of six classes at a local culinary school, a holiday present from my parents. As I walked in, I noticed a shy-looking redhead with glasses. Interesting. Cooking and love, together at last? I sat next to him and when it was time for the hands-on portion of class, we stood together and shared a knife sharpener. Seriously? Swoon. To say I was beginning to draft the blurb for our Sunday wedding announcement in the New York Times Style section wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Ok, it’s the truth.

It was a blustery night and, as class wrapped up, I dilly dallied, hoping we’d walk out together. We never did exchange names during the class.

I left class kicking myself for not finding some way to say goodbye. And then, from behind me, I heard a guy say, “Oh sorry to cut you off, man. It’s clear you two are together.”

I looked up with a smile to see my redhead emerge sheepishly from behind the big, middle-aged guy in back of me. We both blushed and mustered a whole lot of “oh no, really”-s and “haha, no, no, no”-s. But the comment did the trick, and soon we were walking down the street together, swapping stories of how we ended up in the cooking class.

And then the bomb dropped.

“My girlfriend enrolled me.” WHA?

“She’s in the class, too.” GULP?!

Was all of this in my head? And more importantly, who was this girl that just let me flirt with her man for four hours?

In no particular order: she’s not coming till the next class, the flirtation was all in my head, the pending Style section wedding announcement has been destroyed and I’m fully prepared to turn blush profusely at next Sunday’s class.

He’s the guy that drops the girlfriend bomb prematurely. And I’m the girl it was dropped on.

I’ve been thinking about this all week, and about how closely intertwined food and love are. And then I stumbled upon this fantastic little McSweeney’s post on missed food connections.A highlight:

“It was late at night and I had gotten caught out in the rain. I found you in a hole in the wall in downtown Brooklyn. We never saw each other again, but I want you to know you were the best slice I’ve ever had.”

Ah yes, until I find my love to share my food with, I’ll muse about all the dishes I’ve savored along the way.