waiting for godot and the pie

I am on hold. I am having a friend for dinner and waiting to hug, to say hi, to display the food, and to serve. And in service of my guest, a great amount of fun. Not late, just waiting. I love to cook for others, and slight myself when eating on the run, on my own, in the morning.

My mornings are spent at the last 5 minutes eating the oatmeal with vanilla on the bed as I sit, dressed for work, scanning the paper. I drink another cup of coffee, fill the commuter mug and head out the door.

I rarely sit down to actual dinner at home; last year I did daily, here or at my lover's home, we always had placemats, candles... My late mother in law always sat to dinner with same. I don't feel slighted, I just don't.

So it is a huge fun to come home early, cook, plan, set the table, set the candles and light them and play music to sing to while cooking. House cleaned up, at least the frontal part, the lobotomy is behind the closed doors.

Tonight I have made a tomato tart, tomatoes are in the last flush of summer, and I have been wanting to make this for some time. He loves cheese; is headed to Asia where cheese is non existant and so the tart. An ungodly amount of butter in the dough, and fat in the Emmentaller and Mozarella. Layered with overlapping coins of tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and thyme, the tart now sits glistening with oil and oozing aroma into my kitchen. I have portabellos ready to saute, the wine chilled, the baby carrots fresh from the garden ready to nuke with cumin, and a light salad with rice wine vinagrette. No dessert.

so I sit. My usual companion when cooking, Leonard Cohen is on the music and I look out the window at the darkening night.

waiting.

waiting for things to happen, for things to be put on hold due to trips, but waiting and enjoying the anticipation. I wish I could have company every night, in fact, I would cook for my love like this every night. Would he show up?

nothing more to say